Gaslights
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Scarecrow is crouched on top of the hedge, head tilted to the side like a bird's, the yellow eyes in his mask just reaching Dick. One-shots set in the Gotham by Gaslight 'verse.
1. Narrow Streets and Narrower Escapes

AN: _Gotham by Gaslight_ had all my favs in there. Sherlock Holmes references. Serial killers. (VICTORIAN serial killers.) Batman. So. I wanted to play in the sandbox. That, coupled with my double bout of sleep paralysis last night, spawned this. Think I'll muck around, maybe see what else this 'verse has to offer, but you can have this for now.

* * *

It's been a nasty, dirty, wet day that's given way to a nastier, dirtier, wetter night. That, combined with the general unease of being out after sundown (the Ripper, the Bat, who knows which one'll catch you first), makes the streets nearly deserted. There's a storm coming in from the sea-the scent of frothing waves, pushing dead things to the surface, is unmistakable.

Dove Marquis wishes she didn't have to be out here, but the boss had some…private…letters that needed delivering, so here she is. She'll be fine. Yeah, one of those letters was in what some of the staff are calling 'Hell's Waiting Room', but it'll be fine. She's done now, she's going home. She is actively speed-walking home right this second.

So of course something goes wrong.

It doesn't start out going wrong. It starts out because she hears voices-familiar voices-and takes a detour to find some of Penguin's younger informants-well, part time informants-huddled in an alley.

"What are you boys doing out?"

Normally the answer is 'nothing' or maybe a cheeky 'no good', but this time it's the **schwit-schwit!** of switchblades, followed immediately after by, "Shit, sorry, Miss M-s'just I didn't 'ear ya come up an'-"

"Dick, what's going on?"

There's the clip-clop of horse's hooves in the distance, carried by the fog, and the boys flinch. Well. Tim and Dick flinch. Jason, she can see now that she's closer, is just still, propped awkwardly against a stack of crates. Okay, that's odd. Usually he's the first one to mouth off.

"Jay got-" Dick swallows, returns his knife to his sleeve. "Involved. In something. There was. There was a scream. Few streets over that way. And you know Jason, he's always gotta _look_ , and he was gone before I could knock some sense into him, and by the time we caught up to him there was." He gulps, face pale. "There was a man, a big one, a-and he was standin' over a woman and it smelled like _the slaughterhouse-_ "

"Okay, kid, lemme see." She moves him aside. "Lemme just…"

Oh.

This is bad.

'Involved' in street-kid terms can have a lot of meanings. Usually it's code for 'works for a gang now', but not always. This time, it means Jason (typical…) ended up with a knife just under his ribs. She can't tell if he's conscious or not, but he's breathing-a raspy, rattley noise. Tim's clinging to his hand and that's worrying enough on its own-they argue _constantly_. Half the time the bruises they've got are from each other, for crying out loud.

"A woman?" she asks, and Dick nods, glances down the alley and pulls Tim over to him so Dove can crouch down. Either it's a small knife or a deep wound-the thing's in him up to the hilt and she's not willing to remove it. Not out here, anyway. "What happened after you got there?"

"Jay wasn't moving, but the man…I dunno what happened, but he was bent over an' clutchin' his knee like he'd hurt it, so we grabbed 'im and got the hell outta there but _I dunno where he is-_ "

"Okay, Dick, okay." A panicked Dick is a chatterbox Dick, and these streets are far too empty. Voices carry too easily right now and she's beginning to have an idea as to who they saw and what he was doing. "I want you to hold my umbrella-careful, it's one of Mister Cobblepot's custom-made ones-and Tim, I'm going to give you my keys, all right? We're going to want the brass one with the bird's head on top. _That's_ right." She leans over and taps Jason's cheek until his eyes crack open. "I'm gonna pick you up, okay?"

No answer, but he gasps when she gets him up, heavy-limbed and trembling, and mumbles, "Buy ya a drink?"

At least he's with it enough to be a smartass.

"No."

"Buy _me_ a drink?"

"Absolutely not." He makes a disgusted noise and drops his head against her shoulder. "Okay, boys, come on. Just a few blocks, up to where the streets change, you know."

Tim reaches up to latch onto Jason's sleeve. Dick's clearly trying to be calm, but he's still in her personal space, umbrella held awkwardly away from him. It's quiet tonight, no sign of anyone or anything, and Dove thinks maybe, just maybe, they'll be all right. Maybe Jack's gone back to whatever he was doing and she can get this lot somewhere safe and get a doctor for Jason. She's thinking it must be a small blade, pocket-knife sized, maybe-it hasn't…it hasn't gone through. She's seen that, once. Full impalement, and they went to pick the kid up and the blade just…the positioning, maybe, wasn't right, but the tip of the knife sort of just popped out next to his spine.

"M'all right, Timmy. Jus'. Jus' a pinprick, tha's all."

She's not sure, exactly, how Tim ended up out here, but he's a bright little thing. Had some education, once. Which is very unfortunate now.

"The odds of developing sepsis are severe due to the location of the-"

"Shut up, Tim." Jason grimaces at the brightness as they walk under a lamp. "M'not gonna. End up with sepsis."

"We're all at risk due to our living situation-"

"Tim," she starts, but he's on a roll now.

"And you don't take care of yourself _at all_ , so-"

Dick finally cuts in.

"Jay's not gonna get sepsis, Tim. Stop scarin' 'im."

"M'not scared."

"Don't help."

"Mm." He shivers and she wishes, a little, that she'd wrapped him in her coat but really, the less she has to jostle him, the better. Being carried can't be good for him, but it was that, or leave him for dead and unlike some people in this town, she's not that awful of a person. "W'tev'r. Shut up, Tim."

"Boys, behave."

Dick looks imploringly at the sky in that manner of every older brother she's ever seen. It is the look of 'what did I do to deserve this suffering?'

They've walked maybe a block and a half when she _feels_ it, feels the cold autumn breeze whisper _death is coming_. Tim pulls on her skirt and whispers, "Someone's behind us."

"Shh. Keep moving, don't look."

"But-"

"The address," she says, as though he hasn't spoken, "is six forty-two Adam's Lane. You want the house with the bird-shaped knocker."

"Okay, but-"

"I want you to _run_ , do you hear me? I'll be right behind you, but if one of you's there to get the door open that'd be best."

Tim opens his mouth, probably to argue (he's the Cute One, which is a disguise for the fact that he's a stubborn little shit) and Dick grabs his hand.

"Okay."

"Go."

And then they're gone, pounding down the street like the hounds of Hell are on their heels (and maybe that's what this is, after all).

She has a knife. Fat lot of good it does now-her hands are a little full and it lives in the folds of her skirt. If she's being honest, she doesn't think it would do much good anyway.

"Don't suppose you have a knife." she says, picking up her pace and pretending the footsteps behind her don't do the same. Jason winces and mumbles, "Chest."

What-

That little _brat_ -if there is, in fact, a higher power, she wants it to make a note that she's not leaving him to his fate even though it's tempting.

"Really."

"You-" He draws in a ragged gasp and tries again. "You asked."

The other two have vanished in the fog and she hopes to this theoretical higher power that they've gotten a good head start.

"Didn't know you'd moved onto kids, Jack." she calls, because if he catches her, maybe someone'll have overheard this and be willing to share it. "Can't say I'm surprised."

She finally has to turn a corner and now she sees him.

He could be anyone. The boys were right-he is a big man, big like one'a the back-alley brawlers Penguin hires sometimes when someone doesn't make their payments. He's got a bag in his hand and the smell of blood on him is only amplified by the humid air. She can't see his face.

As he moves, she sees that he's favoring his right leg a little. Not much, probably not enough, but it's noticeable. Okay. Okay. She's not sure what caused that (Dick mentioned him clutching it, maybe whoever he got got a hit in), but Penguin avoids certain streets when he can because they're agony to walk on. Maybe she can lose him on one of those.

"If you kill me, you won't be able to hide." she warns. One of those streets is right up this way, if she's quick… "My employer will take it as an insult, or a declaration of war, and he'll tear these streets apart to get to you."

Maybe. He's very paranoid.

Jack passes under a lamp and she sees the gleam of a meat cleaver.

 _Here._

She bolts down a side street, cobblestones hard under her shoes, and dashes down a neighboring alley. She hears him run too, a heavy tapping sound.

Well, shit.

"Pumme down."

"Shut _up_ , Jason."

"But-"

"I'll throw you at him if it comes to that. Deal?"

She ducks back onto the main street. Jack's nowhere to be seen and that's worse, somehow, than knowing he's right behind her.

If they're going to empty the streets of citizens, they need to get some more officers down here.

Okay. Another block, that's all, she can maybe make it if she runs now but she'd rather not because what if he pops out in front of her, huh?

"Where're we goin'?"

"Shh." Were those footsteps or the settling of the city? "We're going to get you a doctor."

"F'we don' get murdered."

"We're not going to get murdered." In theory. Maybe. Ideally. "Just be quiet."

"Mm."

A shadow flits by in the corner of her vision, but when she turns, there's nothing there.

She knows sidewalks are for people and roads are for horses, but there's no horses and if she's in the middle of the road, he can't pop out from an alley and yank them into it. She'll just watch where she's going, that's all.

She's barely stepped into the road when the fog ahead gets blown away, just a bit, and she sees a shape-top hat, Inverness cape, bag. How-

Never mind.

She darts back down the alley they came through, squeezes between a gap in the buildings, and presses up against a stack of crates. She's got a view of the road from here. It's maybe five minutes, now, less with no traffic, to home.

Jason swallows, fingers gripping her sleeve, and mumbles, "Pumme down, 'll be quiet an' 'e won'-"

"We're almost home, hon, just shh."

Okay. She doesn't see him-

 **SCHWING!**

SON OF A-

He misses her by _centimeters_ -the cleaver whistles past her ear and strikes the brick wall. Unfortunately for him, he topples the crates, clogging the ground and giving her the second she needs to _run for it._

She can hear him kicking his way through the wood, but that's fine, she's back out in the road, she can see the damn house. The other two boys are hovering on the porch.

"Open the door, open the door!"

It _is_ open-they duck in when she's practically on the steps. Dick slams it after her and she's suddenly very grateful that Penguin doesn't like people 'being able to look in'-there's no windows in the foyer. Just a peephole.

She has to lean up on tiptoe to do it, but she looks out at the street.

Or. Where the street would be, if there weren't a hat in the way.

The door's locked, but they're saying he's gotten inside a few places now and that's not as comforting a thought as it should be. She jerks her head towards the stairs and the boys go, looking from the door to the very, very expensive furnishings. They're welcome to try for them-Penguin has half of them booby-trapped.

She feels a little safer once they're in the guest bedroom with the door locked and bolted, but not much. Not enough. This room's got a window.

Jason, at some point, has passed out, hand hanging limply towards the floor, and she tries not to jostle him when she sets him on the bed. Dick's still clinging to her umbrella and it occurs to her that he could set it off. Whoops.

"Okay, I'll take that…and my keys…thank you." There's no noise down there. Maybe he's gone away. "I need to call a doctor for your brother, so I have to go back downstairs. I want you to _stay here_ , do you understand? You bolt the door and make sure the window's locked, and I'll be right back."

"But…"

"It'll be fine, Tim." If only she felt as confident as she thinks she sounds. "He's probably gone."

Tim doesn't look convinced. Neither does Dick, but he picks up the fireplace poker and puts on a brave face. Or. What she thinks _he_ thinks is a brave face. He mostly looks like he wants to be sick.

"Okay."

"Good boys. Now just. Just stay quiet, okay? I'll be right back."

Provided the bastard hasn't done something clever, like cut the phone lines or anything. Of all the nights for Penguin to stay late at the club…if she's got time, she's calling him. He's asked for updates-the murder of the working girls is bad for business, after all-and oh, boy, is this ever an update.

And it's tragic, it's really tragic that her first instinct is to call her boss, the, ah, leader of Gotham's seedier side, rather than the police.

Typical Gotham.

She makes her way downstairs, jumping at small noises, and checks the peephole. Nothing. Maybe he really is gone.

She should be so lucky…

The phone works, she finds out, and after calling for Penguin's personal physician (he'll take your secrets to the grave), she calls Penguin himself.

They're busy tonight, sounds like, and he's in a good mood-right up until she says, "So I might have been chased home by the Ripper."

She can just _see_ his oily grin drop like wet clay.

"What."

"I was coming home from delivering those letters you asked me to drop off, and, ah, long story short, I was beset upon by a knife-wielding maniac.

"Did you see his face?"

"No. No, but he's a big man, six-something, easy, and he's got a limp. Not enough to slow him down, I don't think, but it's there. Right leg."

"Is he gone?"

"I don't know. I just. You asked for updates, sir, I thought you'd want that one."

"Mm." He sounds…well, to be perfectly frank, he sounds politely furious. "Fine. Lock up. Call the police, though God knows they're useless, and write down everything you remember about him, put it in my desk in case something…should happen."

Gee. Thanks ever so much for the reassurance that all will be well, boss.

"Right away, Mister Cobblepot. I, uh…" It's best to do this now, so he can come to terms. "I brought home guests. They saw him too, they might be helpful."

"Hm. Good night, Miss Marquis."

That went well.

* * *

The police and the doctor arrive at the same time. The doctor evicts Dick and Tim and the police swan about, supposedly looking for footprints. Dove suspects they're just trying to look busy for a decent amount of time.

"Jay's gonna be okay, right?"

"He'll be just fine." Tim clambers into her lap, wet hair glued to his face, and she stands up and carries him towards the kitchen. "How about some food, huh? S'been a long night."

They end up with sandwiches. Dick's halfway through his second one when Bullock raps on the door frame.

"Well?"

"Nothing."

Of course nothing. If it had been a rich man chased home, there would be something.

"Helpful." she snarks, and he narrows his eyes at her.

"We've just got your word for it that he was here at all."

"We saw 'im!"

"Boys-"

"We saw 'im! We did! And we saw 'im leanin' over a woman in an alley off'a Berner Street."

"What."

Dick nods, eyes blazing, and it would be…maybe a little bit scary…if it weren't for the crumbs around his mouth.

"He chased us! An' he stabbed my brother."

Bullock huffs but doesn't actively dispute it.

"I'm going to send a couple of my men down that way, then. If your story checks out, we'll talk."

He returns to the porch just as the doctor-a dried apple core of a man named Took-makes his way into the kitchen, stripping off a pair of long gloves that have red stains on them.

"He'll be fine." he rasps, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. "Small blade. See?"

He drops it on the table. It _is_ small, like one of Penguin's contingency blades, small enough to keep in the palm of a hand. It's thin, smooth-easy in, easy out-and the hilt is shiny silver, no markings.

Tim and Dick are both making a beeline for the stairs when Took reaches out and grabs them by the ears.

"He'll be fine, but he's resting. Don't go pounding up there and disturb him."

And. She didn't warn him, she should have, but it's too late-

Tim turns those big, watery, kicked-puppy eyes on the man and goddammit, Dick's in on it too and he's so, so much worse because he's the sunshiny one-

Took hasn't got a prayer.

"Quietly." he says. "You can go up quietly."

They go, somewhat quietly, and he turns to her.

"What is this about?"

"As I understand it, Jason found the Ripper in the middle of something."

"Hm." Took rubs his face and jerks his head towards the knife. "I imagine they'll want that, then."

"I don't. They're useless."

"I imagine Mister Cobblepot will want that, then."

Yes. She imagines so, too.

She tucks it into his drawer with her notes and heads upstairs to make sure Dick and Tim are at least trying to be quiet.

They are. They're asleep-Tim's plastered up against Jason's side and Dick's flung an arm over them both. Hilariously, the only one still awake _is_ Jason. He looks…miffed.

"Help me."

"You're fine." She digs a couple of blankets out of the chest at the foot of the bed. "What were you thinking?"

He shrugs, clearly regrets it a minute later.

"I heard a scream. An' I thought maybe I could get a reward, y'know? For 'elpin'." Sure. If that helps him sleep at night. "But by the time I got over there, she wasn't. She was just on the ground an' there was so much _blood_ , a-an' this man. This man was crouchin' over 'er just…" He makes a slashing motion with the arm around Tim. "Over an' over an' over. She wasn't even movin' anymore. But I didn'…I didn't even think about it, I jus' went for 'im, slashed 'is knee but he was _fast_ an'…" He swallows. "Next thing I remember s'Dickie yellin' at me for bein' an idiot."

"You scared him." She reaches over to ruffle his hair. "Go to sleep, huh? He's gone for now."

"But e's still out there."

"Yeah." And she won't be surprised, not one bit, if he chases down someone else tonight in frustration. "Yeah, he is."

Tim curls into a ball and Dick's fingers tighten on his shirt. Jason stares self-pityingly at the ceiling.

"Get them off me."

"Oh, no. I know where you all are this way, it's better." She wraps the blankets around the other two. "I have to go see about the police. You need anything, just shout."

"Death. The sweet release of death."

"Besides that. Sweet dreams."

Despite his complaining, he tucks his head under Dick's and pulls Tim a little closer. He's still scowling, though.

Dove shuts the door and goes back downstairs. It's been a long night.

THE END


	2. The Power of Guilt

AN: Well, shit. It became a Thing. Bucky take the wheel.

This is probably about four months before the Ripper makes his debut in Gotham. I'm going with the idea that the Cock Robins do work for Big Bill, but Big Bill works for Penguin, and Penguin will have you _gutted_ , literally, and probably in an actual slaughterhouse, if he thinks you're getting too big for your britches. So he's got to share them whether he likes it or not.

For added hilarity, mentally insert Sad Violin Music of Choice whenever Tim does anything. Any French seen is from Google translate and my hazy memories of grade school, so do forgive any mistakes. (And tell me so I can fix 'em.)

EDIT: Thanks to EveApplefield for the French help! :)

* * *

"Oi, beautiful!"

Dove sighs and holds up a finger to the fishmonger.

 _"Une seconde…_ hello, boys."

God, it's been two weeks and she'll swear they've shot up like weeds. Dick jabs his brother in the ribs and hisses, "Manners."

" _You_ have ta mind your manners, _I_ don't. We got somethin'. Right?"

"Wrong." she says, and Jason gives her a look of utter betrayal while Dick guffaws. "But you don't have to mind your manners, kid. Whatcha want-ah, _la truite s'il vous plait._ "

"We got some words that the big bird might wanna hear." Dick says. "And we got a new one."

"Oh, boy, an organization- _merci._ "

"You'll like this one." Jason reaches behind them and yanks a tiny little thing, maybe nine, out and to the front. "This 'ere's Tim. We found him in the canal."

'Tim' stares at her like he wants her to save him from the savages who have forcibly adopted him. She will do no such thing.

"Really?"

He nods, lip sucked in between his teeth and eyes big and watery.

"I fell in tryin' ta get outta th' way of a dog cart."*

Maybe she'll save him from the savages.

"Come on, you three. Step lively."

There's a bit of fighting over who gets the window and who gets wedged in the middle, and she eventually drags the closest ear-Dick, it turns out-over to sit with her.

"You're lucky Mister Cobblepot's in town today. He's leaving for the weekend to see his mother-you all right, Tim?"

"'ve never been in a cab before."

And.

And _something_ about that sounds off, or maybe it's that lower lip, out a tad too far-

"You taught him your ways." she accuses Dick, who has the sheer audacity to look at her like he's never done anything wrong in his entire _life._

"Maybe just a little? I'm the good influence! Jay tried to teach him pickpocketing and he got knocked around by an old lady with a parasol-"

"That was great- _ow_ , you little brat-"

"-so this was safer, really, I mean, look at him-"

She has a headache already.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot, known in select circles as the Penguin, is a formidable man for one who barely comes up to her shoulder. He commands respect, and dignity, and-

"So we gotcher info, big bird."

And probably a very stiff drink as soon as the boys are gone.

" _Thank you_ , young sirs." He taps a finger against his desk. "I suppose you want your usual fee?"

"Add ten percent." Cobblepot raises one eyebrow. Dove's not going to lie, she'd severely maim a man to figure out how he does that. "We got another one."

"Fantastic…come here, boy. Let me see you."

Tim rather resembles, Dove thinks, a baby bird. Not a freshly-hatched, ugly little goblin, but a fluffy, cute one that can't quite fly yet. This is very much a good thing-Cobblepot adores three things in life-power, his mother, and his aviary. He's the type of man to risk being run over by a hansom to rescue a downed pigeon. She's seen it happen.

They stare at each other. She thinks that Dick's either a good teacher or Tim's a natural-she can just _hear_ Cobblepot's heart beginning to bleed a little teeny tiny bit.

"Six percent."

"Eight."

"Done." He leans back in his chair. "All right then, lads. Tell me everything you know about Messers Grange and Williams."

It's mostly just things that were already suspected-they've been writing off a little of the merchandise each time, claiming water damage or loss or what-have-you, and it's been…plausible, but. Cobblepot didn't make it to where he is today without triple-checking everything.

And unfortunately for those two, he's now got eyewitnesses confirming that yes, those guns were not damaged by Gotham's damp air or lost to lucky thieves, they were loaded into a hansom cab and driven off to Grange's townhouse.

Pity. They were good at getting things here quickly.

Money is handed over and vanished into Dick's shoes and Cobblepot waves a hand at them.

"Run along, boys. I'm sure Miss Marquis will feed you before you go."

"Thank you, Misther Cobblepot."

That sneaky little-she knows that trick, that careful add of a lisp for maximum pity points. Jason may like to insist he's the bad influence, but if any of them were going to wheedle the Queen out of her palace, it'd be little Dickie Grayson.

And now, apparently, Tim.

"Go on, boys, I'll be right behind you."

They leave and Cobblepot blinks a few times, checks over his desk.

"What just happened?"

"I have no idea, sir. I'll bring you a nice drink in a minute."

He nods, still looking a little confused.

"Do that. And remind them that I have that silver counted!"

* * *

"So we're gonna call 'im Tiny Tim." Jason informs her around a cracker. "Get 'im a crutch, maybe. Then if shit goes south again he's at least got somethin' to hit back with."

"You _knew_ she'd catch me-"

"I did not, I thought I raised you better-"

"You showed me _one_ _time_ , in a crowded street, and then shoved me at her!"

"You'd better hope I don't die, there's only so many saps in Gotham."

Dick thunks his head against the table. Dove sighs and tugs Jason a few inches away from Tim.

"Don't be dramatic."

"I am the backbone of this household." he declares. The other two snort and he tips his head back to look at her. "No appreciation. Look at these ingrates."

"You're fine." She taps his plate. "Eat that, I swear you've gotten thinner since last month-"

There's a rap on the doorframe and she's not going to deny it, she jumps a foot in the air. Or she would, if her skirts weren't so blasted heavy. Seven pounds of undergarments, her foot…somebody needs to get off their arse and come up with something lighter. You can barely get out of the way of a runaway horse, even now!

"Commissioner." She forces a smile. "I didn't know you were here. What can I do for you?"

Gordon smiles and jerks his head towards the boys, who have clustered together a little more. The older two have closed ranks between Gordon and Tim, which is darling and pointless-Gordon's a big softie, always has been. How he survived the War is a mystery.

"Who are these?"

"They do some errands for me sometimes-you know, run a letter, fetch the groceries." She reaches over to tousle Jason's hair and for once he doesn't even pretend to swat at her hand. "Mister Cobblepot is in his study, I presume that's why you're here."

"You presume correctly."

"I'll go tell him you're here. You boys are fine, eat up."

Cobblepot is scribbling something in his notebook. Even from here she can see that whatever it is, it's scathing-he has a unique talent of imbuing his writing with tangible emotion.

"Commissioner Gordon is here to see you."

"Hm-oh. That's right, he said he'd be by." And just like that, the notebook of scathing words is snapped shut and disappeared into the false bottom of his desk drawer. "Send him in."

She finds Gordon trying and failing miserably to get conversation out of the boys, and she's not sure who she's rescuing when she sends him on his way. It doesn't matter-the study door's barely closed when they return to their original positions. She supposes she can't blame them for being suspicious of the cops, really.

"You boys be safe." she tells them later, on the doorstep, and they don't even try to hide their scoffs. "You understand? Don't go taking unnecessary risks, and look both ways before crossing the damn street."

Right on cue, there's an altercation down the street involving, what sounds like, a drunk stumbling into the path of a dog cart. Dick pulls Tim away from the curb and Jason says, "Nah, Dickie, let 'im get run over, it'll give 'im another tool."

"Jason!"

It's times like this that she's grateful to have grown up without siblings.

"Boys, _please_."

Tim looks up at her with those big eyes and she regrets getting involved.

"Sorry."

"Go on. And Jason, I swear, if I find you've let him get run over-"

"I'm hurt." he grumbles, but he hugs her anyway before running off down the street, vanishing into the throng near the drunk. Dick grimaces.

"I'd better go make sure he doesn't get himself stabbed…'bye, Miss M!"

And he's gone, too, dragging Tim along with him like some sort of oversized doll. She shakes her head and steps back inside for a _strong_ cup of tea.

THE END

*Lies. He fell in because the other two knocked him in by accident running from the cops. He's fine.


	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

AN: I've always been of two minds on having Crane as a teacher. On one hand, he's…into his subject. On the other hand, I can see him taking a disliking to somebody and using them as a 'demonstration'-for a life-ruining lecture that exposes _every single insecurity_ to the class. In keeping with the occasional character alterations (see: Hugo Strange), he's not running around Gotham murdering people.

At this moment, anyway.

EveApplefield: Thanks! And Dove speaks Survival French ('I need the police') in modern times, but in the 1880s, her grandparents were first-gen immigrants (who would probably be horrified by the fact that she works for the local crime lord, but they're dead and hopefully will never know).

* * *

"-so serious."

"Hm?" Jonathan Crane glances up from the stack of papers threatening to swallow him whole. "Did you say something, Kitty?"

This may not have been the wisest response-his wife scowls at him and raps his nose with her finger.

"You've got so serious since you took this job." she says, drawing his face away from the dancing letters. "Surely they can't be that bad."

"But they _can_ , Kitty. They can be that bad. They are adults. And yet…yet the stupidity is worse."

"Really-"

"You know what it is? They're at that awful age that they can run out without Mother and Father and they think they _know_ everything. That's what it is. Those wretched little brats-"

"You're barely older than they are-"

He ignores her because he is _right_ and he _knows this._

"-have no appreciation for the workings of the human mind, they're taking this course because they think if they use enough large words-"

"Stoppit." she says, but she's laughing at him. Humph. He doesn't think this is funny. This is the future of humanity that he holds in his hands. The future. Of. _Humanity_. "You're being dramatic."

"Of all the people who end up murdered in Gotham, why not these fools? At least that damned Robert Dribb, I swear if I hear one more attempt to convince me that _lust_ is at the root of human behavior, just one more-"

"Put out an ad, then."

He doesn't feel that she's taking this very seriously at all. She should be. This the new generation of doctors, after all. What if she needs to visit one?

He shoves his chair back and picks her up, ignoring her squeak of surprise.

"This is _important."_

"You are a goose." she says, and he scowls, swings her around. If he was hoping for a shriek of fear, that's not what he gets-only laughter, and small hands gripping his shoulders, and a broad grin. " _There's_ the man I married."

"Humph. I thought wives were supposed to be supportive."

"I listen to you plot how to murder this poor boy, don't I?" He sets her down and she straightens her dress. "Let's go out for a walk. It's a nice night, for once, and a little air might do you good."

A little air might not do _her_ good-it's barely been two months since that cough finally faded (and he's not going to lie, there were a few nights that he thought it might just _stop_ ), and she's still pale, and-

-and she's flinging his hat at him.

"Where is your scarf."

"Oh good God, it's August, I am _fine-_ "

"I will not hesitate to call your mother."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me."

The staring contest is brief. He is victorious.

"I can't believe you." she grumbles. "I don't need a bloody scarf."

"And I don't need to come up with an epitaph for you." He reaches over to fix it, ignoring her batting hands. "There. Shall we?"

It _is_ a nice night, actually-the stifling heat's faded, the stars are visible, and it's late enough that most of the population is off the street in some form or another.

They get popcorn from a street vendor and meander down a street that, in the daytime, is an open-air market. Now the stands and carts are away, and the few permanent establishments are locked down. There's a few people here and there-raggedy urchins, mostly-but other than it's very still and very quiet.

Which makes the gurgling horribly apparent.

"Jonathan-"

"I hear it."

His initial idea is to leave, but curiosity (ah, Granny did try to beat that sin out of him…failed miserably, but tried) gets the better of him and he attempts to untangle his arm from hers, fails, and ends up letting her trail along as he walks towards the alley.

He doesn't register what it is, at first. It looks like a bundle of old laundry. But then there's another gurgle and it hits him that the laundry is, in fact, a person.

Then the smell of blood hits him.

"Good God-"

"Find a constable, I think they're still alive-"

But she's already gone. 'They' turns out to be a 'she', though her face is so mutilated she's unrecognizable. He drops to his knees, sees _slashed throat_ , and tries to stem the bleeding with the knowledge that he can't.

His palms have barely pressed against the ragged edges (and he'll remember the feeling of torn flesh folding in on itself until the day he dies) when she chokes, wet and thick, and the gurgling stops.

He knows what it looks like, when someone dies. He was at his great-grandmother's side when she passed. It was very anti-climactic, really. She'd gasped a few times, and stopped, and just…never started again.

Very much like this.

He straightens up, gloves warm and dripping, and it occurs to him that he should make sure the murderer isn't still in the area…no, no, probably not-they could have hopped that gate, there, easy as anything.

"Jonathan, is she-this way, she's here, my husband's with her-"

"She's dead." And Kitty's face is flushed, did she _run_ , for heaven's sake, it's too soon for that- "There was nothing I could do, Constable…"

"Commissioner James Gordon." Well, well, isn't that a stroke of luck. "I'm sure you tried, Mister…"

"Professor." He strips off a sticky glove-these are ruined now-and offers his hand. "Professor Jonathan Crane. You've met my wife, Kitty, I see."

Gordon nods and steps around him with a curt, "Don't go anywhere."

Fine.

He turns his attention to Kitty, who, thankfully, is not coughing. She's wheezing a little though and he _will_ bring this up the next time she says, 'fresh air will be good for you!'

"Can you breathe?"

She nods, holds up a finger.

"I'm fine, love. Just. Just a little winded, I'm all right."

"You're _sure-_ "

"I'm sure." She swallows, the redness finally seeping from her face. "The Commissioner gave me a bit of a fright, that's all-I came 'round a corner and he was _there_."

"Hm."

More officers are coming and he pulls her out of the way-just as _something_ jumps across the rooftops. He opens his mouth to call somebody over, but…but it's gone, now. Like it was never there at all.

"Did you…"

"I thought I did." His other glove is drying onto his hand. "But I'm not sure."

THE END


	4. The Consequences of Ill Use

Mary Keeny is neither tall nor stout. She is, really, frail and wizened, gnarled as an old tree stump and three times as prickly.

In her youth, she had been lovely, a proud beauty with cheekbones that could cut glass and striking blue eyes that shouldn't have been natural. But her looks have faded, wrinkles swallowing her face and eyes milking over.

Age, unfortunately, hasn't dulled her tongue. Oh, it's weakened her, made it harder to wield her cane with any sort of strength or precision, but her mind is as sharp as ever-and as hateful.

"Absolutely not." she's snarling, clawed hand smoothing the rug covering her lap. "I will not _allow_ it, Jonathan."

"I don't believe you have a choice."

"I believe that I do." And then she smiles, demure and yet so horribly smug at the same time. "I most certainly believe that I do. If you don't drop this foolish notion, you may consider yourself disowned."

So that's how this will be, then. Very well.

He tips his head and leaves the room, retreats upstairs to his own.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years since his parents passed away, leaving Jonathan Crane in the care-and oh, he uses that term _very_ loosely-of his great-grandmother. He remembers them, a little-Mother liked to laugh, he recalls, and Father smelled of tobacco.

There aren't any pictures of them in the house. Granny disowned his mother when she married his father-why she took him in had, for a time, been a mystery. But then he'd grown up a little more, allowing her to dismiss the servants in lieu of a new one-him.

She is so very fond of her money.

Which is why she can't let him leave. She needs him more than ever, now. The arthritis has eaten away at her joints, making it very difficult for her to move, let alone cook and clean. And he supposes, really, that he could leave regardless, make it on his own as best he can.

He looks at the aviary-crumbled in, now, the birds within long gone, and then at the pale scars on his hands. He hides them with gloves when he's out, of course, but here, in the house, there's no need.

Besides. Granny likes to see them. She considers it an accomplishment, in her own way. His leaving will be an accomplishment, too.

Something in him begins to burn.

* * *

Supper is soup, just the thing for a cold, wet day like today.

They sit on opposite sides of the long, oak table, a pair of warped mirrors. Jonathan looks like her-everybody comments on it. He's not sure why. But he inherited her looks, even if, as people also tend to comment, he didn't inherit her mannerisms.

 _Meek thing…_

 _Shy…_

 _Mary used to command the room, did you know that? Shame the boy's so…there._

"I intend to ask Kitty to marry me tomorrow." he says. A slight mistruth-he asked her yesterday. She said yes. Granny raises one eyebrow, temporarily smoothing the wrinkles on her brow.

"And how do you think her parents will take it when you haven't a penny to your name, hm?"

"That won't be a problem." He smiles at her, takes a bite of soup. "I just thought you'd like to know, is all."

"I do not like to know. This is out of hand." Her spoon clatters into her bowl and she stands up, fingers gripping her cane, and begins to hobble towards him. In the past, he might have run. "You are not marrying that girl, you are not leaving to become a teacher, you are _staying here-_ "

She chokes, stiffening where she stands, and her hand claws at her collar.

"Is something wrong?"

She…folds…ankles to knees to hips, and her cane thumps to the floor. For a second she manages to stay upright, a little, fingers grasping at the table cloth, and he's quick to rescue his glass from toppling to the floor. Wine stains are impossible to get out of anything…

"I'm sure you understand that I don't want this cold." Her fingers fall away from the cloth. "I'll help you up in a minute."

She's gurgling and jerking, milky eyes growing more bulbous by the second, and he moves his chair a few inches to keep a better eye on her.

"Do you remember when I was ill as a boy? Just a cough, nothing serious, but you dragged me out of the house to some event or other and everybody wondered why I was out when I was _clearly_ ill. Do you remember that?" A gasp that he interprets as a _yes_. "We went home in the end and you were _furious_. I remember…I don't know that you'd been so angry with me before. Since, yes, but not before…"

She's beginning to seize violently against the rug, shoes thudding weakly as her legs spasm, and he takes a sip of his wine.

"I still have the scar, you know. I have all of them. Every. Damned. _One._ " He leans over at last, hand clutching the table for support. "I have taken your whims for _fifteen years_ , and I have had _enough_. So do me one favor, please, and get a move on. I don't want to listen to this all night."

They're wrong, he thinks. All of them. He got more of Granny's mannerisms than they'll ever truly know.

"It's a pity you insist on keeping rat poison in the spice cupboard. I must have…not realized. My mistake." He settles back in his chair and dips a piece of bread in the soup. "Such a tragedy."

Somehow, her eyes are still accusing, filled to the brim with burning hatred. He raises his glass to her and intones, "To new beginnings."

It takes her, in the end, over an hour to finally _stop_ , and he almost misses it-one minute she's wheezing, throat constricting over air that won't come, and the next, she's silent, crumpled on the floor like a dead rat.

And that, he thinks, is exactly what she is.

"Good night, Granny. Sleep well."

He tucks his chair in, steps over her, and begins to collect the dishes while whistling _God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen._ It was always her favorite, after all.

THE END


	5. Shadow of the Bat

AN: Takes place following 'Narrow Streets and Narrower Escapes'. Because of _course_ Bruce knows what went down.

* * *

The rain, which up until about thirty minutes ago was content to be a light drizzle, is coming down in icy sheets. _Supposedly_ there's an officer standing guard outside, but Dove will bet everything she owns (and Hell, why not everything Cobblepot owns) that said officer has retreated indoors and will not be helpful if something happens.

Nothing new.

The wind's shrieking against the window panes-already threw a not-quite-latched one wide open, that had been an unasked-for fright-and she'll be astounded if Cobblepot leaves the club to drive home in this. He won't put the horse through it. He's funny that way.

It doesn't matter, really. The boys are asleep, everything's locked and bolted, and she's taken the liberty of borrowing one of the revolvers, the one that lives in the hall table, just in case. Although, really, if Jack's got half a brain he'll have gone home rather than skulked about here.

Maybe Gotham will get lucky and he'll catch his death of cold.

She's reading by the fire, listening to the wind bang a tree limb (it had better be a tree limb) against the house when Jason appears in the doorway like a wraith and scares her half to death.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"Dick's a clingy bastard and Timmy 'bout choked me." he grumbles, but it doesn't sound like his heart's in it and she's willing to bet the answer can be boiled down to a simple, _nightmares._

She lets him save face, though, and doesn't argue.

"C'mere."

That's enough invitation for him to squirm under her arm, elbows tight against his ribs.

"T'anks."

"How're you doin', hon?"

He shrugs, nightshirt (one of Cobblepot's softer day shirts, really) slipping off his shoulder. He yanks it back up with an irritated, "Damn _thing_ …m'okay. Be back to work in a few days." She suspects Dick'll lay down the law and keep him down for another week, easy, but that's neither here nor there. "Whatcha readin'?"

" _Treasure Island_. You'd like it. S'got pirates."

"Mm." He yawns and makes himself more comfortable before tipping his head up to look at her. "Please?"

Her willpower is not strong. It's a fault of hers, she knows it well.

"All right, sweetheart."

She sticks a ribbon in and turns back to the beginning. Jason makes it through two chapters, maybe a little more, before nodding off. She'll carry him back up there in a little bit, she figures, maybe when Cobblepot gets back. For now, though, she just tugs the blanket off the back of the sofa and tucks it around him before returning to her spot.

It's been maybe another twenty minutes when there's a noise, and at first she thinks it's her boss after all, but then the thought crosses her mind that it's someone else.

 _Shit._

She twists around, sees nothing, and twists back-only to find there's someone in the room.

The Bat.

She can barely make him out-he's found the one damn corner that the fire doesn't quite reach-but she can see enough. He's, uh, bigger in person. She thinks some of it must be the body armor (?), and the…cape…coat…thing…, but not all of it-the way he stands says that he's a formidable man in his dressing-gown. He's relaxed, at the moment, shoulders loose and palms open, but that doesn't offer much reassurance when his very presence is a horrid surprise.

She's heard he doesn't kill people. That doesn't mean he doesn't _maim_ , and she's not sure if she should wake Jason or not. The Bat moves into the flickering light, just a little, and murmurs, "Don't be alarmed."

Really.

"You broke in, snuck up on me-in these times, no less-and expect me to not be alarmed."

He chuckles, and all right, so she doesn't have to wake up Jason.

"My apologies."

And he sounds like he means it. Not like a lot of men. One of these days she's going to punch that damned Harvey Bullock right in the mouth, just you watch. And she won't be apologizing for it.

"Why are you here."

"I understand you met the Ripper tonight." Ah, so the stories are true, at least to an extent-the Bat comes down for the criminals. "You got away from him."

"Barely." She closes her book at last. "I didn't see much of him, before you ask. Big. Like you. Top hat. He had a meat cleaver, and at least one little knife, 'bout this big."

She measures and feels skepticism radiating off him.

"How close were you?"

"Oh, the little knife came outta this one." She jerks her head towards Jason, who doesn't stir. The Bat stills and as cliché as it sounds, the air freezes. He tips his head towards the boy, stiff and almost mechanical, and growls, **"What."**

"He got too close, apparently." She holds up the hand not cupping Jason's elbow in placation. "He's always been too nosey for his own good."

The air warms, a little, but the Bat does not relax.

"Did he see anything?"

"A murder. I don't know if he saw anything else." She doesn't like being loomed at, but something tells her he's not going to sit down. "I'm not waking him to ask him."

The Bat is silent. Jason makes a small noise and presses against her ribs, sleeves unrolling enough to peek out from under the blanket, and she moves a bit so his bones aren't digging into her so much. It's easy to forget, with all his bluster and energy, that he's still a boy, just two years older than Tim. Not that any of them are really children anymore, but…

"You were lucky."

"We were all lucky." She gives him a bitter smile. "Thank God. They clear the streets and don't put anyone out there to catch the bastard."

"Where is the knife."

She should give it to Cobblepot. He has a vested interest in this, he won't get bored or distracted.

But.

But a man in a bat costume (and it's barely that…has he ever seen a bat?) might be just odd enough, _obsessive_ enough, to do the job.

"My boss's desk. I'll get it for you; I have to take Jay back up to bed anyway."

"I'll carry-"

"He doesn't know you, you're likely to get bit." What little she can see of his face is…puzzled. He's not used to Lower Gotham, then. Maybe he's not even local…but only the locals are crazy enough to do things like this in the first place. "When you wake up to strange men lugging you around, that's always bad."

"Hn."

It takes a bit of maneuvering to pick Jason up without waking him or injuring him further, but she manages, in the end, with only a sleepy sigh and a bit of twitching for her efforts. She's not sure if he's got stitches or not, but Took's wrapped him in bandages all the same-they're rough under his shirt, catching at the fabric.

Lucky, indeed-either they'd have been caught or they'd have tried to fix this on their own, and that would have either ended abruptly when they nicked something important, or slowly and horribly when he ended up with an infection. Neither is a nice thought.

She's not thrilled with the idea of leaving the Bat alone down here (though, really, if he wanted to look around, he didn't have to announce himself), and she heads for Cobblepot's study first. He lurks in the doorway, probably seeing more than he ought, while she gets the desk open and manages-quite handily if she does say so herself-to get the knife out without slicing her finger open or dropping Jason on the floor. The blood's dried, now, and she has no idea what the Bat's going to do with it.

"Here." she says. "Good lu-"

Jason's secret talent is Timing-either amazing or horrendous, with no middle ground. She's not which one it is, now, but it doesn't matter-his eyes flutter up to half-mast and he mumbles, "Miss Marquis…?"

Shit.

"Shh, Jason." She shuts the desk. "M'just puttin' ya back in…bed…?"

The Bat's gone, and when she wanders into the hall, he's nowhere to be seen.

Huh.

She'll mention this to Cobblepot, later, so he can do something about the security, but for now she's got her hands full.

"C'mon, up we go."

"'Kay." He folds into her arms a little more, blinking sleepily in the dim lighting. "Was someone 'ere?"

"No," she says, and he yawns, hands curling against his chest. "no one. Go back to sleep."

"Thought I 'eard voices."

"Just a dream."

He's out, breathing deep and even, when she settles him back between Dick and Tim. They've moved, a little-Tim's face is now smashed into the pillow and Dick's leg is thrust off the side of the bed at some unnatural angle*. Fine. Whatever. She's not about to wake either of them-they're not at risk for suffocation or falling, and they're _quiet_.

She pulls the blanket over Jason and turns to leave-just as _something_ big clears a gap between rooftops across the way.

Well. Maybe the Ripper won't chase anyone else down tonight, not if that's after him.

And maybe…maybe that's what it's going to take. One crazy man to chase down another one.

 _Good luck, Mister Bat. Good luck to you._

THE END

*No one will convince me that Dick, in any and all worlds, is anything but a starfish sleeper. _He has to be._


	6. Gotham Ghosts

Tim is one thousand times more paranoid to be alone with his older brothers than he is dealing with Gotham's unsavories. The unsavories might kill him, but his brothers (Jason, he'll be honest, it's mostly Jason) will make his life a living Hell.

Like now.

"Quiet night, baby bird."

"Don't call me that."

"Aww, you'll miss it someday." Jason jostles him, pushing him closer to the edge of the roof. Tim does a quick check for any questionable devices, not-so-hilarious notes tacked to his cape, or Clayface slime, and comes up with nothing. Good. "When you're old and grey and trapped in a wheelchair, with noisy grandkids running around, you'll look back and miss me."

"No," Tim says blandly, "I won't. I'll be grateful you're not there to shove my wheelchair into a wall."

Mask or no mask, he can feel Jason's Done Look against the side of his head. Whatever.

"Really."

"Really." Jason flops down, head hanging over the side of the roof. Tim kicks his boot. "If you fall and die, I'm telling Dick you were doing the can-can and lost your balance."

"What did I do to you, huh?"

"Salting my coffee was a poor life choice."

Tellingly, Jason has no response. Tim settles down cross-legged and leans against a chimney. It really is a quiet night-it's cold and there's been…incidents. Horrible deaths, or people driven mad by terror. Bruce is trying to see if they're related, but so far they can't even find out if there's someone behind it or if it's an environmental problem.

It's foggy tonight, and Tim can't help but remember this time last year, when a man with a meat cleaver came after them for seeing too much. Jason's not helping-slack-limbed as he is right now, he doesn't look so different then he did when he had a knife embedded in his chest. Not that Tim's going to admit it-his idiot sibling would return from the grave to mock him for being worried.

"I'm bored."

"Go pester Dick."

"I don't know where he is."

Great.

 **Clip-clop, clip-clop.**

No wheels. Single rider. Tim would say _police_ , but those horses are heavier, and their riders jingle a little from their equipment. This is a lighter animal, built for speed rather than brute force. Who's out at this hour?

The fog is doing an annoyingly good job of hiding them, whoever they are, and Tim reluctantly straightens up to go a little lower and find out. Jason's already on his feet.

"There's a balcony straight down."

"I know."

"Then go. Unless you're scared."

One day. One day he will push him off a roof and say it was an accident.

He sticks his tongue out and promptly dodges the grasping thumb and forefinger. Humph.

Going lower doesn't really help. The lights cut through the fog a little more, but the rider's whereabouts are difficult to pinpoint.

They're moving slowly, anyway. No great hurry-there!

The wind and the light clear away the fog just enough to make them out. It's a grey horse, and the rider is of indeterminate gender-the cape is also grey, and the hood hangs down to hide their face.

That's both suspicious and irritating.

The horse stops, ears pricked forward, and the rider's head looks both ways. Tim frowns. Are they waiting for someone?

Perhaps, perhaps not, but it doesn't matter-a constable rounds the corner. Good. This will be resolved very quickly, he's sure.

"State your business!" He moves up towards the horse, hand on truncheon, and tilts his head back. "What do you-"

Things happen too fast for them to do anything. A sword slices through fog, skin and bone and the constable's head falls to the cobblestones with a terrible **thud.** Then the rider is gone, the ringing of hooves the only sign they were there at all.

They give chase. There's clearly no helping the constable.

"The hell?"

"I don't know."

They catch up to the horse two streets over, though Tim's getting the feeling that was intentional-it's just standing there again, not even really out of breath. The rider appears to be looking at them, hands folded loosely across the animal's neck. The sword is nowhere to be seen.

One hand lifts and beckons and oh. Oh, dear. This is bad. This is a situation that Bruce would not approve of.

But Bruce isn't here and there's a dead man (decapitated…brr) two streets away and this is the one responsible.

There's two of them. They can manage.

"Dismount and keep your hands where I can see 'em!" Jason warns. The rider does not comply, merely wags the finger and drops the hand.

Smoke pellets are not going to be helpful, not in this weather. They might not even work.

"Last warning! Dismount, hands up! Let's go!"

The horse tosses its head. The rider is motionless.

But they do whistle, a long, clear blast that skips down the street before being swallowed by the fog. A second later, there's an answer.

And the sound of another horse.

This one's bigger, Tim thinks. All right. So there's at least two people in on…on whatever this is-WHAT IS THAT.

It's a horse, it's definitely a horse, but it's. It's _glowing_ , like some sort of escapee from Hell, and the rider…

Logically, they have to be human. But Tim's gut response is that they're not. That _face_ , dear _God_ …pits for eyes, and stitches forming a monstrous grin…

He can't really complain when Jason shoves him back a few inches.

 ** _"Come down to the ground, little birds."_** the monster rasps, eyes glowing yellow in the streetlights. The horse rears up, pawing at the air. **_"Come down and say hello to Scarecrow!"_**

Stall. Bruce will make his way over here eventually, they need to stall. But carefully-that's a scythe the new one has.

"Why don't you come up here?"

That is not what Tim had in mind.

The stitched head tips upwards, looking like it's falling off, and from this angle the stitches look like teeth.

 ** _"Such bravado…I expected nothing less."_**

Tim sees her first-a flash of red, plunging neckline-but before he can gesture her away, Scarecrow has turned his horse. The woman gasps, backs into the alley, and Jason-

Every goddamn time. Jason has the self-preservation of a toddler.

He's swinging down before Tim can stop him and he has no choice but to follow. Unfortunately, this ends exactly as well as you'd expect.

But not in the way you'd expect.

Scarecrow twists (and twists and twists-how?) and the next thing Tim knows, there's a cloud of bitter white gas in his face, stinging his mouth and nose and making him cough. He falls, landing hard on the stones, and looks up into…into…

The eyes. The monster's eyes are gleaming yellow, slicing through the dark like lanterns, and _something_ with long legs moves behind the stitched mouth.

 ** _"Hello!"_**

Beside him, Jason's deathly still and when Tim tries to reach for him his hand lands in a puddle of blood.

 _No no please no-_

The horse-wreathed in flames, Tim sees that now, it wasn't glowing at all-neighs, a hellish sound that grates against his ears and Jay's still not moving and there's so much blood-

The grey rider looks impassively down at them, a black hole where the face should be, before turning away. Scarecrow cackles.

 ** _"Tell Batman I want to meet him!"_**

And then he's gone. Tim struggles to his knees, trying hard not to vomit, and gives Jason a hard shake. His neck's at a horribly awkward angle and he can't tell where the blood's coming from and _Jay no wake up you gotta wake up-_

 _Something_ big lands in front of them, claws reaching forward, and Tim swings his staff, hits them with a satisfying **crack!**

"Get back! Get away!"

They lift a hand and there's a prick at the side of his neck.

Then the world falls away.

THE END


	7. Oops

Dick has made a mistake. He has erred. He is doomed.

"Um. Timmy. Look, I'm really, really-"

Tim's head peers over the side of the chandelier, scowl clearly visible.

 **"** **Dick."**

"I'm gonna get ya down, just…don't. Don't move, okay? Just stay there, I'll…find…something…"

"What's goin' on?"

Oh boy. This just went from bad to worse.

Jason leans against the doorway, apple in hand, and takes the most obnoxious bite possible.

"You look guilty."

"I…okay. So I was trying to teach Tim to do a flip-just a little flip, I swear!-and, um, somehow, I don't know how, it just…he…"

 **"** **He trapped me up here!"** Tim screeches, face red, and Dick cringes.

"Yeah."

Jason leans back to look. Stares at Dick. Looks again.

"You got our baby brother stuck on the chandelier?"

"On accident!"

He cackles. Dick wants to punch him.

"You're fucked now."

"Shut up, Jason."

"I'm getting outta the line of fire."

"You leave, I tell Alfred what happened to that plate."

"You wouldn't."

They stare at each other until the chandelier rocks, crystals (jeeze…) tinkling against each other. Dick thinks that must be what the gates of Hell sound like.

"I will end you, Dick." Tim seethes. "I will never trust you again, and when I get down there, I am going to rip your limbs out of their sockets so they're just hanging there like a marionette's, and then I'm going to laugh, and then I'm going to tell Alfred what you did to me."

Jason chokes on his apple and Dick takes a little more pleasure than is probably right smacking him between the shoulders. Serves him right, the jerk. Why is it that his little brothers get along best when they're trying to take him down, huh?

"I'm gonna get ya down, just don't move too much, if that falls-"

 **"** **I'll hope you're standing under it."**

"I'm gonna find a ladder."

"You said it'd be easy! Nothing bad'll happen, you said! I'll catch you, you said! Was this your idea of a safety net? **Was it?** "

"What's going on in here?"

Aw, crap.

He likes Selina-she's circus, like him. She _gets_ things. But right now, she's not Selina, the fun one who juggles kitchen knives. She's Selina, who will absolutely tell Bruce that Dick got his baby brother trapped on the chandelier.

Good-bye, dessert.

Maybe Tim will stay quiet…

"Nothing." He's a little out of practice, now, but he's pretty sure he can still charm his way out of a bad situation. Pretty sure. He puts on his widest, most innocent smile and hopes for the best. "Jason's just being-"

"Selina!"

God damn it, Tim.

Selina frowns, tips her head back to see, and gets that look in her eyes that says she's trying not laugh.

"Tim?" She knows. She _knows._ "How'd you get up there?"

"Dick."

This'll teach him to adopt more siblings…

Jason snickers and dodges the elbow thrown his way. Selina shakes her head and goes up to the top landing.

"All right, Timmy, get that thing a-rockin'."

"But…"

"I'll catch you, I promise. Come on."

"That's what he said." An accusing finger jabs towards him. "And here I am."

"Have I ever lied to you, kitten?"

"No…"

"Then come on."

"Hey, Tiny Tim!" Oh, no. He tries to clap a hand over Jason's mouth and the little shit dances backwards. "If you go splat and die, c'n I have your pocket knife?"

"Don't even joke, Jay." he seethes. "Tim's gonna be fine, Selina's right there, we're right here, he's not gonna die."

"Honest question."

"I should've let you get run over, I knew I'd regret it when you bit me-"

"You could have been a kidnapper, Jesus-"

 **"** **Yee!"**

WHAT WHAT'S GOING ON UP THERE-

Oh.

Tim's fine. He's clinging to Selina for dear life and looking like he wants to vomit, but he's totally unharmed. Oh, good. He didn't break his little brother, and he's probably not _that_ traumatized. They've had worse, surely.

"There, see?" Selina grins and starts towards the stairs. "Everything's fine." She winks at Dick, who starts getting ready to grovel and plead. "Bruce never needs to know…he'll worry."

" _Thank_ you-"

"And you'd better be nice to me or I'll tell." Tim warns. Dick believes him.

"I'm so, so, so sorry Tim, I swear that wasn't supposed to happen."

"He's tryin' ta off ya, brat." Jason says seriously. "Sleep with one eye open."

"Shut up, Jay."

"What? It's not like you can prove me wrong…just last week you brought him a snack and he almost choked…"

"If I'm offing one'a ya, it's you."

"Boys…" Selina sets Tim down and looks critically at the chandelier. "I don't think he'll notice anything, do you?"

Notice? Notice what? Is there something to notice-OW.

Tim digs his nails into the underside of his wrist and hisses, "You did this to me."

"You didn't have to listen to me!"

"You led me into danger on **purpose**."

Jason, the traitor, is nowhere to be found. Selina's leaving too, and he can just make out her shoulders quaking. He…he deserves this. But it was an accident! Honest!

"Tim-"

An angry snarl and a tighter pinch. Dick yanks at his wrist, gets nowhere, and resigns himself to pain and misery.

And guilt. A _lot_ of guilt.

THE END


	8. Accidents

AN: Takes a HARD turn into darkness halfway through, and that wasn't my intention, but oh well. Mind for blood and unsafe factory conditions.

 _Agafa Shelly_ -In Dick's defense, it really _was_ an accident-he was trying to teach Tim a Skill. It just...didn't work out as planned.

* * *

Dove is just wondering if she should see Sionis (ugh, but he's creepy and she hates him) or get a snack (the chestnut cart is a street over…one little street…) when there's a blur of red and brown followed by a, "Holy shit, I'm saved, Jesus really does love me."

What?

The red and brown blur is Jason, who is now hiding behind her skirts. Great. He's… _done something._

 _"_ _Petit rouge-"*_

"Okay so I might'a fucked up a little teeny tiny bit but I _swear_ it was an accident so you gotta hide me please-please-please-"

"What did you do?"

"Gave Dickie a haircut."

Sionis can go hang-she's going home and getting a drink.

"Jason…"

"He asked! My hand slipped!"

She twists around in time to see him peering out into the crowds, presumably searching for his executioner-er, older brother. He looks somewhat sorry-pale and tense, at least-but…well…Dick accidentally tackled him (long story) a few weeks ago and he's the type to hold a grudge.

"Nothing bad is going to happen."

"He's gonna _kill_ me." Maim, maybe. "Pleeeeease, you gotta help me out here."

"Absolutely not."

"You don't want me to die, do ya? Me, the ray of sunshine? The favorite child?"

"My favorite child is Penguin's girl-shaped umbrella stand."

"…the favorite alive child?"

This kid needs to find a theatre troupe. Seriously, if one passes through town, they need to take him.

She rubs her nose to hide the fact that she's about to laugh and cranes to see if she can spot Dick anywhere. She can't, but that means nothing-that boy's half-monkey, he has to be, and he could be bouncing along on the sun shades the shopkeepers have set up today. Or on the roofs.

This is Cobblepot's fault. He went and offered him a job as a part-time snitch and things snowballed.

"I'll do an-yyyy-thing," Jason's begging, all but on his knees. "I sweeeeearr. Steal, lie, murder, be Penguin's new umbrella stand, whatever. Just _please-_ "

There's a snarl from behind them and Jason tenses to bolt. She grabs him by the collar and turns to face…oh.

Oh dear.

It's, ah, it. It starts well. Nice and even, no straggling locks in the back. But the bangs…well…

She's thinking Jason really didn't mean to. Nobody gets that kind of chunk cut out on purpose. No, that truly was an accident.

"Bury me next to my mother."

"Don't be a goose."

Dick's clearly been running-he's red and panting and his hat is clutched in his hand. He jams it on his head and stalks forward and, really, to be fair, in ten years that might be scary. Maybe. A little bit.

"I need to borrow my brother," he grinds out when he reaches them. Dove sighs.

"No. Come on, walk with me."

Dick scowls and jabs a finger in Jason's direction.

"We duel on the morrow."

They both need to find a theatre troupe.

"Boys…"

"I told ya! My hand slipped!"

"Look at what he did to me!" Dick gestures to the, ah, the mishap. "I'll look like this 'til I'm _old!_ "

"It'll grow back in a week or two. Come on."

"Maybe you can pity your way into food, huh?"

"Don't help." Dick makes a strange noise that sounds like a cross between a death rattle and a roar of rage. Jason looks longingly towards a nearby alley. "You boys eaten anything today?"

"Jason's getting a knuckle sandwich later."

"No, that's your order-"

If she ever, somehow, ends up with kids of her own, she wants _a_ kid, and preferably a daughter. Girls are better than this. They poison you, not brawl in the street.

"No."

* * *

They end up tagging along to the mill. She'd rather them not, but technically they can go where they like. Maybe it's better this way-the wander in here alone and they might get…recruited.

This isn't a good place for kids. Not that it matters-most of Roman Sionis's work force is twelve and under. Easy to train, easy to replace, and cheap. The labor laws are supposed to look after them, but nobody enforces them. 'Specially not when it's the street kids getting pulled in. They're out of the way, and it's an honest living.

Dove hates coming down here.

Roman Sionis is a big man, with nice suits and rough knuckles. But what catches everyone's attention is the mask he wears. He was burned, badly, during the War and light hurts him. At least, that's his claim. Dove suspects he just likes the unease the thing causes. There's rumors that it's a real skull, and she doubts those, but it's lifelike enough all the same.

The black teeth grin down at them now and she feels Dick try to pull Jason behind him.

"And who are these?"

"Couple'a errand boys, they're with me today." _Not for you._ "Mister Cobblepot would like you to be aware that lateness is not tolerated in his organization, Mister Sionis."

Silence. Somewhere on the floor below, there's an agonized scream and the horrible grinding of a machine. Sionis doesn't even turn around.

"You can tell _Mister_ Cobblepot to come down here and talk to me in person next time, rather than playing telegram." He seems to grow taller, somehow. "I don't appreciate being treat-"

 ** _SSSSHHHRRRIIIIEEEEK!_**

That sounds bad.

It must be, at least a little-Sionis turns around now and goes to his office window. A second later, he opens it and roars, "What's going on down there?"

Now, with the window open, the screaming is a _lot_ louder. She's about to demand that he either go down there and help or finish up here when Dick and Jason decide they want to get involved and _bolt_ , pounding downstairs and emerging a few seconds later on the work floor.

Shit-oh. Oh, dear God.

The problem is…one of the machines. She's not sure what it does, but it goes round and round at a terrible speed, and it's…there's a little girl, nine, ten, no older than Jason. She's caught in it and it keeps slamming her against the cement** and she's still _screaming._

And then the screaming stops, but the machine's still going, or trying to, and underneath the horribly whirring and grinding she can hear the snapping of bones. The floor is red, now, and there's something squishy that keeps getting spread all over the place and she's going to be sick-

Dick and Jason have come to a stop at the edge of the crowd. Somebody finally manages to get the machine shut down and…God, that little girl's barely even…her skirt. That's all. That's what got her caught and that's all that's recognizable anymore.

"Get that cleaned up and get back to work!"

Dick's mouth is opening and Dove's finally close enough to grab him.

 _"_ _Don't."_

"But-"

"We're leaving. Don't antagonize him."

She doubts Sionis even realizes they've gone-he's still shouting from his office when the door finally shuts behind them. Jason, for once, is silent, pale and shaking and pressed tightly against Dick's side.

"What is that place?"

"Now you know why I said you don't wanna come." She rubs her nose and tries and fails to unhear the screaming and the snapping. "You don't go in there. You don't come back here. Is that clear?" Frantic nodding from the both of them. "Roman Sionis used to be in charge of Gotham until Penguin arrived. Now he makes smuggling boxes at that mill."

Silence. Dick's clutching Jason like a doll and Jason's not even pretending to complain. Outside, the sun's setting and Dove sees nightmares on the horizon.

"Penguin's visiting his mother tonight," she says on a whim. "You boys can stay in the guest room, he won't mind."

"You're sure-"

"Yeah. Just don't make a mess or vanish anything, huh?"

Olga raises an eyebrow when she herds them inside, but Dove just reminds her that she had to go see Sionis today and the eyebrow goes back down, only to be replaced with a grimace.

"What happened?"

"Accident with one of the machines. It…she just kept hitting the floor and it wouldn't stop going around."

"They saw?"

"Everything."

And then the woman's gone, moving upstairs with a silence that Dove always forgets she's capable of. The boys will probably end tonight petrified that she'll put them into the oven, but at least they'll be warm.

And, more importantly, off the streets and out of range of Sionis' ever-seeking fingers.

THE END

*'Small/little red'.

**Actually happened (probably more than once). The accounts ain't pretty.


	9. Time Enough for Goodbye

AN: Recommended, uh, mood music: Eurielle's 'City of the Dead'.

* * *

Dick, in the end, is the one to find him.

Like he would have been hard to miss-there's a. A harpoon, jutting up out of his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor and it doesn't _matter_ because things are _not_ supposed to point that way and _Jay no no please-_

He's not. He's breathing. Sort of-awful wet gasps that keep catching in his throat and Dick vaults over a pile of rubble and crouches down next to him.

This is bad. This is bad-bad, Bruce can't…there's no…

 _Oh, God, Jay…_

Never mind the harpoon, never mind the twisted limbs, Jason's lying in a pool of blood and he looks so _small_ , like he used to when Dick could carry him without too much effort. Joker…that son of a bitch…he was at _school_ , he should have been _safe._

"Shit, Jason," he breathes, and his brother's eyes flutter open, glazed over and unfocused, before clearing a little when they settle on him. The following grin is ghoulish and weak and short-lived.

"Dick."

"Yeah," he says, voice rising a few octaves. "Yeah, I'm right here, we're gonna. We're gonna get you home and Alfie'll get you back to good as new, okay? Just. Just don't move, Bruce an' Tim'll-"

Jason's coughing, harpoon wiggling a bit and blood splashing up to his lips and dripping down his face in red icicles. Dick swallows down the urge to scream and scream and scream and dabs them off, or tries to, with his shirtsleeve. All that really does is smear them into his skin.

"Shh, Jay, s'okay, s'okay, we're gonna make this okay…"

"Hurts-" he gasps, eyes squeezed shut and tears streaking down his cheeks. "Dickie-"

"I know it does, I know, just shh…" He's terrified to touch him, even, but it doesn't matter and they both know it and he reaches out, brushes his fingers against the matted hair before pressing his palm against his face. Jason gasps, fingers jerking and pressing against the ground.

"Mmm-y mom," he whimpers, eyes half open and _terrified._ "I wan'. Wanna be with my mom."

"Not today, Jason, s'okay-"

"Dick, _please_. Promise."

 _God no please please no._

"I promise, Jay, I promise, but not today, you're gonna be okay, Bruce-"

He coughs again and this time his whole body jerks, back arching and forcing the-the harpoon further in and _Bruce where are you please-!_

"Shh, Jay-bird, shh." He'll remember the squishy cutting sound, like rare meat, for the rest of his life. "Shh."

Jason finally stills, tears falling off his face and into the blood beneath him, and Dick tries to wipe his face again. His brother's skin is already freezing.

"Hurts," he breathes again, tongue pressed against the back of his mouth, and Dick grips his hand.

"S'okay, Jay-bird, you're gonna be fine, Bruce'll be here any second."

"Tim," Jason whispers, and Dick nods reassuringly.

"Tim too-"

 **"No."** The broken, bloodied hand twitches, fingers scraping against his wrist. "Tim. He doesn't need ta see this. Dick, _please_ **-** "

Right on cue, they hear Tim, in the distance but getting closer.

 _Shit._

"Dick-"

"Okay, Jay. Okay. Bruce'll. Bruce'll be here, just please hang on."

Jason's head drops to the side but his eyes are still open, a little, and he's looking at Dick like Dick'll make this _right_.

"'ll be 'ere."

They have time, if they don't move that harpoon, they have time. They have time enough for goodbye, don't they? Dick's seen men caught in machines linger for hours until they get them dislodged, held together by metal. They have time.

He kisses Jason's forehead anyway, swallows the creeping horror that they _don't_ have time for goodbye, and goes to head Tim off and point Bruce in the right direction.

And Bruce. Meets them, not ten minutes later, and Jay's so goddamn still in his arms and Dick knows, deep down, that he was gone before Bruce got to him.

But they were supposed to have _time._

THE END

AN: Happy death day, Jason! Okay…so I'm kind of sorry but not sorry enough. Don't look at me like that, he gets better and you know it.

Agafa Shelly-Oh, it's worth it-the Robins are cuuuuuute and I can honestly say I did not see that ending coming.


	10. Long & Lost

AN: Title from the Florence + the Machine song. Jason won't remember any of this later, but I wanted to explore the idea a little bit anyway.

* * *

Jason knows he's dead.

It's hard not to know, when looking down at himself reveals gashes and cuts and a hole that goes straight through his body.

But nothing hurts. Nothing hurts anymore, and that's…it's something.

He doesn't know why he's here. He doesn't know if maybe he did somethin' to get him banned from Heaven but not so bad as to park him in Hell, or if…if maybe this is just what happens.

He gets sucked from person to person, seems like, whenever they…he's not sure, really. Strong levels of missing him, maybe?

Lotta the time it's Dick, who's refusing to take care of himself hardly ever. He and Bruce don't talk, now-they avoid each other and when they can't, they start screaming at each other about anything and everything. Jason tries to stay away from them when that happens, but he can't always.

"C'mon, it's not…please…"

But they never hear him and always, in the end, Alfred makes them separate. Like now-Bruce is brooding somewhere and Dick's slumped in Jason's old room, clutching his hat to his face and trying so hard not to cry that his face is bright red.

"Dick?" He can't touch him, he never can, but he tries anyway, tries to put his hand on his brother's shoulder. He goes straight through him. "S'not your fault, Dickie, please…"

Dick eventually breaks down completely, sobbing near-silently into the cap, fingers white-knuckled against the fabric. Jason sighs (can he sigh if he doesn't breathe?) and sits down next to him, hand just shy of his wrist.

"I miss you, too, Dick."

* * *

Tim doesn't know what sleep is.

He's never known what sleep is, but now he's living on green tea. Jason knows why-the few times he's slept, he's woken up screaming.

Like now. Nobody's come, because it was so short, but he's sweaty and gasping and staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to life's mysteries.

"It didn't hurt, y'know," he says, which is a blatant lie, but what the hell-Tim can't hear him anyway and there does come a time that it's better to reassure your baby brother rather than traumatize him further. "It was over quick enough."

Another lie. He'd lingered for hours before Dick finally found him, struggling to breathe and unsure which would be better-him being alive when they finally found him (because they would, he'd known that from the start), and getting one last goodbye in, or him not having to see their reactions.

He's still not sure which would have been easier.

Tim rolls over, curling around his pillow, and Jason tries to will himself solid enough to ruffle his hair.

He can't.

He can, however, hover over the edge of the bed until Tim's breathing evens back out.

"M'okay now, Timmy." Who knows, maybe he can hear him in that half-asleep stage, like all the books imply. "Really. M'okay."

If Tim hears anything, he doesn't show it and Jason shuts up.

* * *

Bruce is hard to handle. He's always been…intense…but now the fury and sorrow radiating off him is almost too much to take, like the blistering heat of an out-of-control blaze.

He doesn't leave the cave, hardly. Just sits down there and works on his cases and the second night falls he's out into the city, pummeling criminals to a pulp. There's more than one time that Jason's convinced he's going to get himself killed.

"B, you gotta calm down," he pleads, voice barely audible to himself over the screams of the man hanging off the building. "I don't think you can bring me back this way."

Or **any** way, and Bruce…has looked.

Bruce, like everyone else, pays him no mind. He merely pulls the schmuck up, pauses, and drops him again like he's a human bandalore.*

"Bruce, c'mon." He swipes for the line and goes through it. Always. Always through. When will he learn? "You're gonna kill somebody. You're gonna kill yourself!"

And he suspects that's…at least partly the goal. More so now than ever-a few weeks ago he took a knife to the side and Jason will swear on his own grave that he **saw** him. He was looking in his direction, anyway, and he said his name.

And then he up and passed out and had to be collected. Barring his…his death, Jason has never felt more helpless than he did watch Bruce bleeding onto the cobblestones that night.

"Bruce?"

The schmuck is deposited on the roof and Bruce leaves, grappling off somewhere to make use of the information given. Jason follows.

What else can he do?

* * *

Selina doesn't talk to Bruce, either, not more than she can help, but they don't scream. They snip. They make icy, snide remarks like a couple arguing in public.

She doesn't go in his room. She goes into the library where they used to read together, and sometimes she'll pull out the book of poems they both enjoyed.

But she never opens it. She holds it, palm pressed flat against the cover, and sometimes she'll pull it to her chest, but she never opens it. Not anymore.

There's a bookmark there, on _Little Boy Blue**_ of all poems (and yeah, he'll admit to having cringed when he remembered that) and he wonders if that's why she doesn't open the book.

"You could just skip over," he suggests, in the wee hours of a rainy morning. She came down here at midnight, wrapped in her dressing-gown and hair loose, not a pin to be seen. Her eyes are hollow and she doesn't have the grace she's always had before. "If you wanted to go on, I don't mind."

She fingers the ribbon sticking out of the pages, emerald green (used to be his mom's favorite hair ribbon, did he ever say?) and watches the rain strike against the glass.

It's cold in here. Or at least, he thinks it is. He can never tell. It must be, though, because she pulls her robe tighter around herself before she sits down, fingers moving like they might finally open the book.

But she doesn't. She brushes them along the pages before suddenly doubling over with a choked, "Oh, God, Jason-" and starting to cry, tears hitting the cover.

He sits down and tries to rest his head against her knees.

Tries and fails.

* * *

Alfred doesn't have the reputation of being a stoic for nothing. He carries on, like he's always done, mediating arguments and stitching people back together and not saying much of anything.

But he doesn't sleep, either. He remains in the kitchen with a cup of lavender tea, hands folded around the mug and tired eyes fixed on the chair that Jason used to favor.

He looks old. It's like his wrinkles multiplied overnight.

"Alfie?" Sometimes he thinks Alfred might know he's there. He doesn't want to think about why that might be. Maybe he's just more open-minded or something. "You gotta sleep too, y'know."

Alfred takes a sip of his tea. Jason chooses to see this as an 'I'm listening' and soldiers on.

"If you're gonna insist on takin' care of everyone, you gotta get a full eight hours or whatever. F'you go, they all go."

Alfred finishes his tea, washes the cup, and goes upstairs without a word.

He knows it's coincidence, but he's still gonna count that as a victory.

* * *

With Dove, it's never outward. He guesses it can't be, really-you can't afford that sort of emotional rawness when you work for a crime lord. But it's there, if you know where to look. Like now.

"-do your goddamn job! That's what you're paid for, so get it done!"

They guy she's yelling at looks paler than he does and Jason can't blame him. Dove's the **nice** one, even when Penguin's away and she's in charge of keepin' everyone in line.

"I think you scared him," he says as the man scrambles away. She pinches her nose and walks back to the cab, melts into the seat by the window. He sprawls across the other seat, since she can't see him to yell at him to sit up and hey, he's already dead, nothing can hurt him anymore.

He never thought he'd want to be yelled at, but he does. Just one more time.

"I wanna come home," he whispers, curling up and accidentally jabbing a crooked finger into the hole in his chest. "I wanna come home, _Maman._ "***

Dove doesn't answer. She's not even looking over-she's looking out the window, fingers trembling around the handle of her umbrella. He's never seen her look this tired.

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to and finds out, a few minutes later, that dead boys can, in fact, cry.

THE END

*Yo-yo.

**Poem by Eugene Fields about the death of a child.

***'Mom'-Jason's using it as a term of endearment, kinda like how some people call a friend's mom 'Ma Firstname' (or whatever).


	11. Breakage

It's two weeks after Jason's…Jason's funeral…that Dick comes to a decision.

They can't stay here.

Look. He will acknowledge that the whole 'dressing up and going out to pick fights with crazy criminals' is not normal for any family. But when that family consists of a shut-in, an actress, a butler-mom, and three (two, just two, now) street urchins, exceptions are going to be made.

And he's willing to acknowledge that if something had happened…at night…then, well, they all know what they're in for. They put on the masks every night knowing that someone could get a lucky shot.

But this wasn't at night. This was in the goddamn daytime, this had, as far as they know, nothing to do with the Bat or the Birds or any of that. This was the Joker (and Dick _will_ find the bastard, never mind what Bruce says) thinking this would be hilarious, thinking this would shake things up.

And they'd. They'd seen him. Dick not so much, he's not at school every day now, just a few classes left. But Tim, a-and Jay, they'd. They'd seen him. Just glimpses, lost in the crowd too quickly to do anything.

They had ample warning. Warning to homeschool, or leave the city, or _something_ , but no.

And now look at where they are.

Bruce promised. When he took them in, Dick cornered him and made him swear on his cowl that he would keep them safer than they'd be on the streets. And yeah, Dick had believed him, been stupid and desperate enough to believe him, but he'd promised.

 _I just wanted someone else to take responsibility, just once._

That'll teach him. If they'd stayed, yeah, maybe things would've gone south, but they would've probably integrated into Penguin's organization sooner rather than later, or at least been hired as dockhands an' outta the public eye. Outta _His_ yellow eyes, anyway.

He looks at Tim, pale and tired and shell-shocked, still, and fights back the memory of him thrashing in his arms and insisting that Jason couldn't be dead because they found him and that's how these things _worked._

"Dickie?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we doing the right thing?"

He's going to miss Alfred. Alfred, who's been so kind to them even when they've been, admittedly, kinda awful, and who's always got some sorta baked good and who taught Tim to play the piano. Let Dick take a breather from mediating the arguments. Read to Jay when he was sick in bed.

He's really, really gonna miss Alfred.

"Bruce is a liability, Tim," he says quietly, pulling his warmest coat out of the closet. "We were better under the radar without him."

Tim's silent for a few more minutes, hands folded in his lap, before whispering, "I know."

Upstairs, there's shouting-Bruce and Selina have been at each other's throats since…since. It's always things like _look at me when I talk to you_ and _how dare you use that tone with me_ and, once, long after midnight, _you're not the only one who lost a child, so stop acting like you are._

He'll miss Selina, too, miss the way she used to wink and cover for them when they snuck out to have a smoke on the roof. Or, once, when Dick was trying to teach Tim how to flip and…he doesn't know how, exactly, but Tim got trapped on the chandelier. Selina had gotten him down and promised not to tell Bruce. (Like Bruce didn't know anyway, probably, but still.)

He doesn't know if he'll miss Bruce. Selina didn't promise. Alfred didn't promise. He didn't ask them to. He thought-God, he was naive and foolish!-he thought a promise from the Bat would be enough.

 _Jay-bird, I'm so sorry._

He's not relying on that promise, not anymore. He's learned his lesson, paid the price, and he's not losing the one sibling he's got left.

Tim slides off the bed and sets the envelope on the pillow. Now's as good a time as any-if Dick's gonna be honest, he's not sure he can follow through if he has to face Alfred, and today's Alfred's day off.

The shouting upstairs grows louder, and he throws an arm around Tim's shoulders, pulls him close, and heads for the back door. Batman coped just fine without them before, he'll cope now. And if he's not going to hunt Joker down…it's not like they don't have some old contacts of their own.

There's only so many places, after all, that a clown can hide. Even in a city like Gotham, somebody'll have seen him.

THE END


	12. Ruined Punchline

AN: In the comics proper, Dick really did beat the Joker to death once. Didn't stick, Bruce resuscitated him. (DAMMIT, BRUCE.) But he tried.

They've gone out of their way to avoid Penguin and co. whilst in uniform (you think they wouldn't be recognized? Think again.), so between that and some tweaks done before they, uh, went for it, they're not recognizable as the Robins anymore. There is a second bit to this, I'll put it up probably on…Monday…but this has to come first for it to have the intended effect.

* * *

It's a quarter past four in the morning when the whole household is pulled out of Penguin's study (emergency meeting-Mrs. Cobblepot has taken ill and he'll be leaving at dawn, he just has some instructions for them) by the doorbell.

It's pouring rain (April showers, her foot, it's the May showers you have to watch out for) and this being Gotham, the only explanation is that there's been a murder and that the police are doing their damn jobs. Well. For once. It was probably a rich man, that gets them moving.

Penguin mutters something about mannerless swine and gathers up a sheaf of papers that need his attention regardless of his mother. Olga squares her shoulders and marches to the door, flings it open.

Two minutes later, she returns. The casual observer wouldn't notice a difference, but her bewilderment is obvious if you know where to look-her face is carefully blank, lips thinned, and something. Something is wrong.

She's got Dick and Tim behind her, but it takes Dove a few seconds to recognize them-they're…what is this, Halloween? They've got costumes on, some sort of armor. And capes. And they're both clutching domino masks.

Oh. They…they haven't…Jason's death. They're not _well_ , that's what this is.

At least, that's her first idea. A closer look says the red splashes aren't strategic paint spatters, they're _blood_ , mixing with the rainwater and dropping onto the floor with a steady _plik-plik-plik._ They're both pale and as blank as Olga and that's worse, somehow, than them dressing up and…

 _What have you done?_

It's telling, how so very wrong they look, that Penguin doesn't even snipe about his carpet. He simply heaves himself up, clutching his desk for support, and just like that he's the oily-yet-charismatic man that could sell ice to an Eskimo.

"What's going on, lads?"

"He won't laugh anymore," Dick says softly and Dove's hair stands on end. Dick doesn't…he has never…that's his voice, it is, it's just… "He won't laugh anymore, he's stopped."

"Dickie," she says, moves towards him with her palms up, "what are you talking about?"

He pulls Tim (he looks so small in that armor he's just a boy they both are what _have they done?_ ) against his side. Tim doesn't even protest, just drops his head against his brother's shoulder and looks at the growing puddle of bloody water beneath them.

"He started laughing," Dick says, still in that soft (drugged?) voice, like he's mentally far, far away. "He laughed and he laughed and then he **stopped**."

Penguin frowns, nose scrunching up. Olga, though, is the first one to confirm.

"The clown?"

Tim nods, heavy and tired (and dear God he looks all of eight years old again…).

"He's at the GCPD. Or." He grins, then, sudden and sharp and no longer eight. That's Penguin's smile, s'what that is, and it's all sorts of wrong on little Tim Drake. "What's left of him."

"Tim-"

"He killed Jay," Tim whispers, arms winding around Dick's ribs with a wet _sliiide-squish._ "He killed Jay an' he was gonna kill more an' more an' we had to. _We had to._ "

Penguin turns away and rubs his temples, murmurs, "Get someone to prove it. If it's true…"

If it's true, that's a massive hole in the underworld, now. Lotta jobs gone, lotta quarrels going to be cropping up. And that girl-Quinn-she's dangerously obsessive, she won't take this well at all.

"Right away, sir."

He's quiet for a second more, like he's going to say something else, and she waits. The study's silent, save for everyone's breathing and that damned _plik-plik-plik._

"God, I hope they did it," he says at last, fervent and trembling. "For Gotham's sake, I hope they really did it."

Somebody had to. Joker is (was?) a mad dog, it would be a kindness to everyone. But…but not them, not…somebody should have done this before they…before Jason…

She makes the call to one of the boss's, erm, police watchdogs, who says he'll call her back in a few minutes. Olga is moving at last, gathering towels and muttering darkly in Russian. Dick and Tim are still.

"All right, boys," she says gently, trying and failing not to think of them as skittish dogs. "All right. Let's just. Let's get you dried off and cleaned up and we'll…we'll worry about this later."

They don't move, not until Olga's meaty hand comes down on Dick's shoulder.

"Come along, _мои ангелы_."*

That gets them moving, shuffling along like a two-headed beast. The phone rings a minute later.

"Holy shit, it's him."

"You're sure?"

"He's." Tibbs gulps once, twice, three times. "He's still smiling. His fuckin' head's off and he's _still smiling._ "

The floor feels like it falls away and Dove tightens her fingers on the phone, eyes closed.

 _Oh, my God, they did it._

"Thank you, Constable," she says faintly, hangs up and whispers, "He's dead, sir." Penguin doesn't answer. "The. The J-" She can't say it. Her throat feels swollen shut because he's dead, his head's off but he's dead and they… "The clown."

"I thought as much." He closes his briefcase with a horrible _snap!_ "They were always reliable informants."

But they…

She is not going to be sick. She has seen and heard of far, far worse.

 _But they're only children, aren't they? Just last week Tim was complaining of growing pains, wasn't he?_

No, she's not going to be sick.

She places a call to the carpet man and wanders out to find them.

Olga's got the situation in hand-she's separated them into two boys again, taken their masks and capes, and plunked Tim, armor and all, into the bathtub. The soap suds are running red already. Dick's standing by the door, heavy-shouldered and dead-eyed.

"Dickie?" Up close, in better light, there's so much blood. It's all over him and all over Tim and people don't realize, do they, how much a man bleeds when you…when… "Come on, _cheri,_ let's…let's get this off'a you."

He's bigger than she is, now, but he may as well be twelve again-she's barely put her hands on him when he folds into her arms and ducks his head under hers, whispering, "He's stopped. He's stopped, he's stopped, he won't laugh anymore…"

Yeah. He's stopped. But what a price to pay.

THE END

*Google says 'my angels', but I speak practically _no_ Russian, so if Google is lying or whatever, please tell me.


	13. The Last Laugh

The Joker is a showman. Dick hates this fact, hates the turning of something that should bring joy into something so sour, but there you have it. He wants to be looked at, to have the spotlight.

That was the hardest thing for Dick, after his parents fell. Street kids _don't_ want to be seen, being seen will get you killed at best, and slipping down dark alleys went against every fiber of his being. Not having an audience, any sort of audience, had been torture.

But now? Not so much. Especially not now that night's falling-if Bruce wasn't out before, he will be soon, and this time he'll be out in the cape. If he sees them, if he _catches_ them, everything will be over before it's even begun.

The drumroll hasn't started yet, and it's not _time._

It had been easy, really, to slip into some rattier clothes and disappear into Old Gotham, track down old associates. One of Penguin's enforcers, Charlie Tripps, had swung them both into a bear hug before muttering something about a mime skulking about in the back of the bar. Funnily enough, the mime had proved chatty.

Especially when Tim sat down across from him, unblinking, and started pressing those delicate fingers of his against the man's joints. 'Weak left elbow,' he'd said at last. 'Easier than usual to dislocate. A good, hard wrench to the right and it will pop right out. Then we could-' Here, he'd held up one of Dick's escrima sticks and smiled the Brucie Wayne smile, '-shatter the bone, make it _very_ difficult to put back in, and very painful.'

They hadn't needed to go that far, thankfully.

And here they are.

If the mime is to be believed, the Joker has set up shop in the ruins of the World's Fair. The city never did anything with it, and Dick has no idea why.

It's poetic somehow, he thinks. Right.

"Tim," he says softly, adjusts his mask over his face one last time, "if things…start not looking good, you get out, you get yourself somewhere safe."

Tim gives him a flat look.

"Don't be an idiot."

"Promise me."

"No."

"I can't-I _won't_ -lose anyone else, Tim-"

"Neither can I!" The sudden shout bounces against the burned remnants of the Ferris Wheel and they both freeze. When nobody comes running, Tim reaches over and grips Dick's elbow, pulls him closer. "We do it together, no matter what happens."

Some part of him says leave. Go home, or go _somewhere_ , but don't do this. A larger part of him remembers just this morning, scrubbing his hands raw because Jason's blood will never come off no matter how hard he tries.

He didn't look after him. The least he can do is avenge him.

"All right."

Tim lets him go. It's quiet, dark and still. No vermin. No signs of life at all. Just the scorched shells of kiosks and attractions, looming dark and judgmental all around them.

But then they reach the spotlight, the one with a bat slashed upon it, and the giggling starts.

It's far away, but it doesn't matter because he's _here_. They've found him.

The spotlight seems to be the border for the Joker's current lair-every step past it makes the giggling grow louder, and there's color here-confetti here and there, and tattered silk streamers. And, eventually, music. A calliope, to be specific.

The music is coming from a tent that _has_ to be new. Dick doesn't know where the bastard got it, and he doesn't care. There's a good chance it'll be ashes like the rest of this place by the time they're through.

From a distance, the tent looks just like the ones he remembers darting into as a boy, laughing and ducking under the heavy flaps without a care in the world. Up close, the illusion is shattered-there's tears and gashes in the fabric, stains on the lower few feet that are probably blood. And the colors aren't right, they're _just_ this side of too bright.

But then, from a distance, the Joker looks like a real clown, too.

The laughing reaches fever-pitch and makes Dick's skin bunch up. Tim inhales, just once, before going carefully still.

And then, before Dick can stop him (or better, knock him out and hide him somewhere until this is all over), he flings the tent open, hurls a smoke grenade into the middle of it, and chaos erupts.

Between the smoke and the darkness, they're literally fighting blind. Not that it matters-there's not that many henchmen here, and most of them are either untrained or drunk or both. Besides, Bruce taught them how to fight with impaired vision. They aren't very good at it yet, but the foundations are there.

They're enough. Enough against drunken buffoons who can't seem to do much more than panic and flail.

"Booooysss!" WHERE IS HE- "You're disapPOINTing me!" Somebody's knee goes sideways. Dick can't bring himself to feel sorry. "If youuuu can't handle a couple of knock-offs, what'll happen when the Bat comes to play?"

He'll be begging for Batman. Dick's not about to lie, if Bruce shows up to stop them, he's going to be…upset.

Tim's staff whips out inches from his face and there's the sound of crunching bone and somebody falling. That damn laughter somehow gets louder, bouncing up to the top of the tent, and-THERE.

The Joker's worked his way around to the entrance, and like hell is he getting out of this.

"He's makin' a break for it!"

Tim doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. Dick knows he'll follow. And he does-just vaults over a couple of fallen bodies and gives chase.

Joker makes it maybe five feet before they catch him.

* * *

They knocked him out and stripped him, coming up with two sets of false teeth (rigged to blow, naturally), a stick of dynamite, a ribbon twirler covered with broken glass, a novelty pistol with one flag and one bullet, and a bottle of green liquid that they couldn't identify. They stacked those and the clothes out of the way before trussing him up like a turkey and hauling him into a rotting apartment building in Lower Gotham.

No one cares how loud you scream in Lower Gotham.

The Joker remains unconscious for a good hour. They spend it unpacking the duffel bag they stored here earlier. A crowbar, for dramatic irony, a couple'a hacksaws, to keep him from running away, and a pair of good, old-fashioned brass knuckles. They were unable to find a harpoon, unfortunately, but Dick's willing to bet that crowbar'll work just fine if they push hard enough. Worst case? They tie a knife to Tim's staff and use that.

"You okay, Timmy?"

Tim's flopped against the wall. There's a bruise on his cheek from earlier, but otherwise he looks fine.

Looks can be deceiving.

"I'm not the one with bruised ribs."

He doesn't…oh. Now that it's been pointed out, he realizes that he's got an arm over the sixth and seventh on his right.

"They're fine." He sits down next to him and together they stare at the white, spidery body in the middle of the room. They could have picked a better angle, he thinks. Joker's face is turned towards them, lips stretched wide in a strychnine grin.* Not for the first time, Dick wishes he'd been successful when he poured the stuff down his throat.

At least those yellow eyes are hidden under thin lids. It's something.

He knows the bastard's unconscious, but he pulls Tim against him anyway, hand brushing against the warm metal of his mask. Tim doesn't pull away. He never has. That was always J…Jason's thing, and even he only did it when there were other people around.

Tim's not shaking. Dick thought he might be, but he's just still and quiet, fingers shredding a scrap of paper he found on the floor.

This'll be over soon. He's not sure how he'll feel, after. He's never. Not.

He's not a murderer. He's _not._ And this…legally, it's murder, but…it's more like putting down a rabid dog. Or the death penalty. Bruce insists everyone can be redeemed, can be helped, but the Joker can't and he's not going to stop. He never stops.

They have to. It's the right thing. Doing the right thing is hard.

"It'll be all right, Dick," Tim mumbles, dropping his scraps of paper and patting them into a heap before worming his arm behind his back. "We made it this far, didn't we?"

They could kill him now. They should, before he wakes up. But…but that would be a mercy, a mercy he's never shown anyone, and…

Some dark, gnarled part of him bites down on that and refuses to ponder it further. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

A life for many, many lives.

He plunks his head on top of Tim's and watches the bastard breathe. Then, maybe ten minutes later, the wheezing giggles start and those papery lids peel themselves up one by one, like window shades.

"Look at you!" He doesn't even try to squirm, just gazes up at them. "Daddy's boys flew the coop! But wait…" Don't. "Weren't there three of you?"

Dick flicks his wrist, sending a shuriken flipping through the air to embed itself in the Joker's thigh. The blood that comes out is red, stark and horrible against the white skin. The clown wiggles in delight.

"Touch-yy! Daddy won't be happy with you."

"He's not coming." He stands up, now hyperaware that his ribs really do hurt, and rifles through their supply of weaponry. Tim moves closer, cautious as ever, and Dick settles for the crowbar. Keeps his hands from dragging his little brother back to the safe section of the room. Or locking him in a closet. "It's just you and us, all alone."

"Could be dangerous." The grin grows impossibly wider. "I love it-ah-ah, baby bird, I'm a laaady!"

"Don't call me that."

Tim's hands are on his ankle and they **twist** , hard and sudden, and there's a soft **pop!** before the foot hangs limply out of joint.

"If you get your fingers positioned just right, s'like opening a crate," he explains. "Leverage and weakness go together."

The giggles have become strained with what Dick hopes is pain. Tim moves back, cocks his head in that unsettling manner he has. With the bird's mask, it's borderline demonic.

"He's still nursing a cracked rib from the last time," he says, voice carefully flat. Dick wraps his fingers around the crowbar and pulls his arm back to swing it.

"Let's fix that."

The shattering of an already damaged bone is a unique feeling, he knows from experience. Especially when bits chip off and make their way into the body around it. It takes a minute for the pain to kick in, but now that the crowbar's hit once, it wants to hit again.

This time, a tooth is knocked clean out, ruining that goddamn grin once and for all. Furry, green-dye-washing-out eyebrows knot together in a rage and he aims for the jaw this time, knocks it sideways.

He won't stop laughing

 _"_ _Dickie, please-"_

Why won't he stop isn't this hurting him at all-

 _"_ _Hurts…"_

 ** _He won't fucking stop laughing-_**

 **CRACK!**

At first, he has the wild, nonsensical thought that the crowbar's broken. But no, it's bloody and messy, but intact. There's bits of flesh on the end, he registers. White, gloppy, fatty bits.

"'Wing," Tim says softly. There's blood on his face when-oh. Spatters. That's all. "We need to finish up."

The giggling is cut with chokes and sputters but it's still there. They do not need to finish up. They need to make him **stop.**

But Tim's holding up one of the saws, teeth gleaming in the weak light, and before Dick can stop him, or argue, he's rolled the Joker over onto his back with a nasty crackling noise. And it's then, with the haze starting to fade off, that he notices the clown's legs are very still. Abnormally still. And now? So's everything else but his shattered face.

The teeth of the saw press against the throat. He should stop him. One of them deserves clean hands.

But his hands are shaking now, shaking badly, and Tim's are not. And God help him, they need steady hands.

"Where _is_ your angry bird?" Tim's head twists suddenly, lips thinned. "Don't tell me I killed him and didn't know it! Come on, who was it? Dying man's last request?" The bloody eyebrows waggle and a tongue pokes out through broken and missing teeth. "Telllll meeeee."

Tim sets the saw down and for a minute, Dick thinks he won't do it just yet, or at all. But then he grabs the wiggling tongue, rips the shuriken out of the Joker's thigh, and cuts straight through it. The hunk of flesh slips out of his fingers and onto the wooden boards with a sickening _whap!_

"Shut up, Joker."

He picks up the saw again, hands still so, so steady, and starts cutting.

The blood comes immediately. It doesn't fly out like it does for a stage performance, just flows and flows and _flows_ , dripping over the teeth and down to the floor.

The laughter doesn't stop and when Tim's hands start to shake at last, Dick picks up the other saw, crouches down on the other side, and does what he does best-help his sibling.

The laughter doesn't stop for another two minutes, and when it does, it's sudden. Just a short, sharp puff of air. But the smile stays, and the eyes are still open, even when they finally pull the head free and throw it into the bag where it can't look at them anymore.

Tim looks from the tongue to Dick to the bag and whispers, "He won't come back, will he?"

"No," he says, pulls him into a hug. "No, he won't come back."

Heaven help him if he tries.

THE END

*In the original GBG comic, Joker appears as an Easter egg-Jim (I think it's Jim, anyway) mentions him as a guy who killed his wife and tried to off himself with strychnine. Didn't take. Pity.


	14. Vivisepulture

AN: I Googled this word and was gifted with both the definition and a picture of a pie. (The definition, by the way, is 'the art or practice of burying alive'. Uh, Google, the pie doesn't make it better.)

That last bit is canon, I swear. Well. Adjusted for the time 'n all, but still.

IMPORTANT PSA: between heavy construction in my area and the arrival of the rainy season (high winds, heavy rain, Thor-worthy lightning storms), my internet is sketchy. SO if I don't update/reply to e-mails/comments as usual, that's why. It's not that I don't love you, and I will catch up as soon as nature lets me. We should keep on schedule, this is just a heads-up.

* * *

Jason is awake.

He doesn't remember waking up. Maybe he's been awake for hours, or seconds. Could go either way.

The air around him is stale and heavy, difficult to force into his lungs, and at first he wonders if he's been ill. He…everything's so faint and hazy in his head, fever-fogged. Last thing he remembers is…is…

 **Screaming laughter and the snapping of bone and the sound of a knife through raw meat God please I don't wanna die I wanna go home please-**

The garish, white, twisted face flashes behind his eyelids and he tries to open them, only to find that they **are** open, and wherever he is is pitch black.

"Dick?" His throat doesn't want to work. "Bruce?"

His words fall flat around his ears. The stale air grows heavier and he swallows, tries to stay calm, and lifts his hands from his chest. He gets maybe six inches away before they hit wood.

 **No no please no-**

Something's moving in here with him, skittering along half-rotted boards. Things are moving outside, too. He can hear them burrowing.

 **Please-**

He's gasping, he realizes, and he tries to stop because he doesn't want to suffocate but he shouldn't be here how is he here why didn't they-

 **Okay. Okay.**

He pushes against the wood. It doesn't budge, but a few clumps of dirt fall onto him. The skittering noise near his ear intensifies and something with hairy legs scurries across his face. He smacks his hand against the planks trying to claw it off, but it's gone before he can adjust himself to reach it.

He pushes at the wood again. More dirt, and this time something slimy and wiggly, falls in.

"Dick!" He scrambles for some kind of leverage and gets a splinter under his nail. "Alfred! Bruce, Dove, somebody, please!"

Another slimy wiggly thing falls in and hits the back of his tongue, making him choke and gag before it-

-goes down.

He can't be sick, he can't, he'll choke on it and he's not dying down here, he's **not.**

He feels around for something, **anything** , and comes up with his belt buckle. It'll do. Coffins are flimsy, he knows they are, he saw one fall off the back'a the cart once and it broke and there was a hand stickin' outta the splinters-

 **Why couldn't that've been me I don't belong down here somebody PLEASE-**

Something squirms in his throat and his stomach flips, forcing acid halfway up before he gulps it back down. The squirming stops immediately but now there's just. Weight.

The buckle makes a satisfying **SCRAPE-SCRAPE** and wood chips join the dirt and insects. Unfortunately, he's not expecting the lid to weaken as quick as it does and he barely has time to take one last breath before it, and the mud above him, come crashing down.

The mud's slippery and nearly impossible to grip, slipping through his fingers and leaving him to flounder like a drowning man. Once or twice there's stinging pain in his hands-bites? Splinters?-but he can hear the rain he can hear **air** just a few more feet come on-

He emerges in torn, muddy grass, coughing up mud and legs and half-chewed worms and he can **breathe**. His legs are still locked in the mud below but they can wait. They can wait.

He slumps forward, wet grass against his forehead, and gets three deep breaths in before he vomits. That does nothing to make him feel better, and it leaves him trembling and too weak to haul himself out the rest of the way.

No one's here. It's nighttime, and no one's here, and he realizes, at last, that he shouldn't have been able to move, let alone dig himself out. That had been a broken arm (lot of other broken things, too) that Joker gave him. But…but he's here. He's breathing. He can feel his heart pounding against…his…ribs…?

Stuck like this, in the grass, with his wet clothes clinging to his body, he can. Can **feel** something. He lifts a shaky, splinter-filled hand and presses it against his chest. A second later he rips it back like he's been burned.

There's a huge, raised scar that he **never** had and can't explain. Hesitant prodding says it starts at his stomach and…and splits, goes up to the top of his shoulders.

 **They cut me up?**

The implications of that hit him like a boot to the chest a second later.

 **I was** ** _dead_** **.**

There's nothing left for him to vomit, but his body tries for it anyway, leaves him retching hard enough to bring tears, hot and thick, to his eyes.

By the time he's stopped jerking, he's shivering and very, very aware that he needs to get out of the rain, get somewhere safe and dry and figure out what's happened to him. Dick. A-and Tim. He needs to find them, needs to get home. But first, he's gotta get these splinters out.

He manages to heave himself out of the ground and as tempting as it is to just lie here in the grass, he stands up, staggering and swaying, and heads for the road.

His head's swimming and he can barely walk. The rain just keeps falling, masking the road from view. All he can see, now, are big blurs-trees and the distant spikes that must be Gotham. Home. He's gotta. Gotta get home, it's freezing and there's blood dripping from his hands, he can feel it. S'itchy an' hot and he can feel it clinging to torn fingertips before letting go of his skin.

Home. Penguin. Penguin'll get him home, the Manor's on the other side'a the city. He's just gotta get to midtown and he can get a ride, they'll recognize him.

Wet grass turns to mud under his feet and a gust of wind whips under his jacket, clawing at his wet shirt and sending chills down his spine. S'cold. S'cold an' he wants to be warm but can dead boys be warm? Can they?

There's a noise. He turns around to see what that noise might be, and has time to see a horse coming up literally **right** behind him before-

"Good God-!"

The ground rushes up to meet him and then he knows no more.

THE END


	15. Take Me Home and Make This Right

AN: This is so far off of what actually happens that it's not even funny, but maybe there can be at least one world that goes…kind of…better. (Though to be fair, Gaslights!Jason has it easier than a lot of his counterparts due to an existing pre-death support network, avengement, and lack of perceived replacement. So, really, despite everything, he'll be okay when he does finally get back to Gotham in the future.)

In light of DC's 'everything is awful HAHA!' I raise you one 'fuck you DC everything is sunshine'.

* * *

In another world, Jason scrambles back onto the grass before the carriage clips him. The passengers-married couple, slightly tipsy, on their way home from a party-are very apologetic.

He guilts them into giving him a ride. Not to Wayne Manor, he's not that dumb. He knows what he looks like-sketchy and likely to be a murderer or something. But he gets them to drop him not far from their own residence in midtown, and from there it's only a street south to Penguin's townhouse.

Gotham's too loud tonight, too bright and too busy, and Jason honestly isn't sure if it was always like this or if it's…how long has he…

Penguin's house is dark and for a second he panics-what if no one's home, what'll he do then, it's too far of a walk-but he forces a ragged breath into his lungs and knocks.

Nothing happens. His knees threaten to drop him and he wills them to lock, to keep him standing for a few more minutes. He's freezing and his hands really hurt, and if he's going to be honest, he doesn't…he doesn't feel right. He's too aware of his body, that things he knows were broken

 **Shattered collarbone dislocated hip that fucking harpoon**

are not. The only sign, as far as he knows, of what happened is the. The. On his chest. **That.** Everything else is fine, like nothing ever happened. He doesn't understand, and right now he doesn't want to try. He wants to go **home**.

A light appears upstairs.

 **Thank you.**

Olga opens the door a minute later, and he catches a snippet of horrified Russian before she slaps him hard enough to send him staggering back.

Oh, no.

"Olga-"

She keeps coming and he spots the gleam of a meat cleaver seconds before it strikes the bricks near his head.

"Olga, please-"

"What's going on?"

Dove's voice, tired and more than a little annoyed. Jason scrambles back into the beam of light streaming into the road, but Olga's faster than he remembers and she grabs his arm tight enough to bruise.

"Got you." Uh-oh. This is bad. This is terrible, this was not how things were supposed to go- "Who do you think you are-"

"Olga, what-oh, my God."

He's dragged inside. The door slams behind him and right about now, he starts really, really sympathizing with Penguin's regular mooks.

Olga might be furious-the grip on his arm says so-but Dove's staring at him like she's seen a ghost. Which, to be fair…

"What on God's green earth…"

"What are you?" Olga gives him a shake hard enough to rattle his teeth. Water and mud

 **Call it what it is s'grave-dirt**

flies off him and hits the rug. The women don't seem to notice.

"Are you another Karlo*, hm?" Another angry shake. "Or something else? What are you?"

"S'me," he rasps, wonders when his throat started to hurt like this. "S'Jason. I swear, I don't know what happened-"

"Jason is dead," Olga snarls. "How dare you put him on and come here-"

"Ivy," Dove whispers. "Ivy came back. And. And Gold, d'you remember, last autumn…"

Yes! Yes. See, there's a…a precedent, please…

"Wrong." Olga looks him up and down. "They came back wrong and you know it."

"I didn't," he insists, because he's pretty sure he didn't. He doesn't…he feels all right. No vines writhing in his skin or anything, just worms in his throat and insects in his chest and that goddamn scar- "I didn't, I swear, I didn't, please-" Olga looks from her cleaver to his skull and he **panics** because she's going to kill him, he knows she is and he just wants to go **home**. "Olga-"

She shakes him again before forcing him back against the wall.

"What do we do with it?"

Dove squeezes her eyes shut and turns around, murmurs, "Wine cellar, Mister Cobblepot can…I don't know, he'll probably want to see."

Nononononono it's dark down there and cold and damp and **he can't do this again.**

But Olga's already yanking him back towards her, hard enough to make him stumble, and beginning to tow him towards the innocuous wooden door. God, no, **please** -

" _Maman,_ " he begs, unsure if he's even allowed the use of that nickname anymore, " _Maman,_ please, I **swear** I'm not **-** "

The cleaver just…drops, bounces under the hall table. Olga lets go of him, too, peels her fingers off his jacket one by one. Now that he's not being half-held upright, he feels about to collapse-his legs are shaking and everything's so vivid. He can hear his pulse in his ears and it's so foreign. It shouldn't… **he** shouldn't…

Dove turns back around, looking like she wants to be sick.

"What did you say?" He doesn't know the correct answer. His head hurts and he's **tired** and the…the **thing** on his chest feels like it's suffocating him. "That's not…Olga-"

Olga grips his arm again, gentler this time, and tugs him over under the lamplight before pulling his head back and looking at his eyes. The light hurts but he doesn't dare try to pull away from her.

"Not Karlo," she murmurs. He's never heard her sound this uncertain, not even when Dick had fallen through the ice when they were little. "I don't understand…"

Neither does he and he's **sorry** , he's so sorry…

He doesn't realize that his trouble breathing is caused by hiccupping, half-swallowed sobs until Dove's standing in front of him, shaking fingers brushing tears off his cheek.

 _"_ _Petit rouge?"_ she breathes. He nods. "Oh God-"

"M'sorry, I just didn't know what to do, I woke up-"

He's pulled into a hug, squeezed and folded down like he's ten again.

"No, no, no, sweetheart, don't-" Dove swallows and grips a handful of his jacket. "Don't be sorry, Jay, **God** , don't be sorry."

A heavy hand comes down on his head, moving purposefully through his hair and dislodging clumps of mud and who-knows-what-else. He's vaguely aware of Olga saying something, or maybe just trying to, but all he picks up is alarm (that's funny, she's never…nothing rattles her, why…?), no words.

His hands hurt. They've been throbbing for a while now, but now that he's **safe** , and going to be all right, they're really making themselves known. So, for that matter, is the…the autopsy…

"Jason-!"

And the world falls down.

* * *

He wakes in a bed, in clean clothes and with bandages running from his fingers to his elbows. He's warm for what feels like the first time in…in a long time,

 **How long was I gone?**

and his hair's damp. What…when…

He thinks he remembers Olga pulling splinters out of his hands before carrying him upstairs, but he can't be sure. He can't be sure of anything. For all he knows, this is…some sorta afterlife, or maybe not even that, maybe s'just…maybe he's dying and his mind's trying to soothe itself or maybe-

"Jay? Sweetheart?" He lets his head drop to the side to look at Dove. " _There_ you are…think you can take a drink?"

He nods, or thinks he does, and pulls himself upright, slumps against the headboard. He couldn't hold the glass if he tried and she doesn't try to make him, just tilts it against his lips. The water goes down easy. Wakes him up a little more.

"Dick 'n Tim'll be here soon," she says, and he's confused because what about Bruce 'n Selina 'n Alfred? Aren't they still…s'B outta town or somethin'? "And Penguin sent someone out to Wayne Manor, but in this rain it might take them a bit to get there."

That doesn't explain anything.

"How long was I…" He can't say it. He wants to, it's just that his tongue seizes up and won't. Dove sets the glass down, though, and presses on his shoulders until he goes back down.

"Six months," she says roughly. "It's October ninth. Or. Or maybe tenth, now, I don't know the time."

He hasn't missed Christmas? Dumb as it is, he's ridiculously happy-Alfred had said he could have the good eggnog this year.

"Tha's it?"

"That's it."

He wonders where Olga's gone, and if Penguin knows, and if Dove will tell him why Dick and Tim aren't with Bruce and Selina. At least, he wonders for a few minutes, before he dozes off on accident. Next thing he knows, he's alone and there's voices in the hallway.

"That's not possible-"

"He's gotta be like Gold-"

"I wouldn't have told you if it wasn't true."

"But he was-"

"I _know_ that. But it is him, I promise. It's not…it's not like the others, it really is Jason. Now go on. Just be careful with him."

And then the door opens.

It's an effort to get his eyes to stay open, but he manages all the same. Dick and Tim are here, and they, wow, they look awful, like they've been out all night. They're not…not in uniform, at least, but still…

Why weren't they with Bruce?

He wets his lips and rasps, "Hey."

 _"_ _Jason,"_ Dick breathes. "Jay, oh, my God-"

Tim doesn't say anything. Jason blinks and the kid's **on** him, arms around his neck and face buried in his chest, mumbling, "M'sorry m'sorry m'sorry Jay I didn't mean it I **didn't-** "

He doesn't remember…what the hell is Tim going on about? Had they argued…before…or something?

Later. He'll ask later. It doesn't matter, whatever it is, his little brother's all right and that's the important thing here.

He hugs him back, which is harder than he'd expected with his arms bound up, and buries his face in his hair.

"I gotcha, Timmy," he breathes. "S'all right. S. S'gonna be all right."

Isn't it?

Tim moves so his bony-ass knees are tucked uncomfortably against Jason's side. Dick's still hovering in the doorway, eyes wide, and all Jason can think is, **please don't faint, I'm too trapped to catch you.**

"Dickie?" And he hasn't…he thinks he remembers using that childish nickname **Then** , but…not for a long time before that. S'just…s'just that he's confused and wrung out and he wants his big brother to fix it like he used to.

Dick makes a sort of a sob and comes closer. He stops next to the bed and reaches out, like Dove did earlier, until his fingers brush against Jason's head.

"Jay?" He sounds awful. "S'that…you're not…"

He nods, throat suddenly thick, and pulls an arm off of Tim's shoulder to make a weak swipe for Dick's hand. Dick, thankfully, gets it and sits down-and then promptly lays on him and Tim both. Ow.

Tim moves so he's no longer the middle of the sandwich. Jason closes his eyes and realizes that he has no idea whose tears are dripping onto his neck. **Now** he's warm, and the knot of limbs around him is so different from…from when he woke up earlier that there's no way he can be anything other than **alive**. That, and he can feel his pulse in his hands. That helps. Hurts, but helps.

"What happened?" Tim finally spits out, and he decides here and now that they don't need to know everything.

"I don't remember," he says, pretends he doesn't feel Dick's hand trembling against the scar on his chest. "I woke up and then I was here."

 **Splinters and worms and God please don't let me die down here-!**

No. They don't need to know.

He tries to pet Tim's head-he's more conveniently located-and ends up sort of bludgeoning his hair with his club of a hand. Somebody (Olga?) was enthusiastic.

He coughs, sudden and unexpected, and Dick scrambles off him, swats Tim off, and pulls him upright.

"Jason-"

Coughing hurts and he can't stop. Tim scarpers off somewhere, leaving Dick to move so that Jason's back is against his chest.

"Breathe with me," he says, like he used to say when they were kids and Jason'd had a nightmare. "C'mon, Jay-bird…"

He **can't** breathe, that's what happens when you cough. He's still struggling for air, tasting dirt and corpses on his tongue, when Dove reappears with a glass of water.

"All right, baby, all right, come on…"

His head's tipped up and water's coaxed down his throat, quieting the coughs and washing the dead taste away. He's still sputtering, a little, when Dick's hand all but smacks against his cheek.

"He feel warm to you?"

Dove frowns and kisses his forehead.

"Maybe…"

"M'fine," he insists, and it's a blatant lie and he knows they know it, but still.

He is ignored.

"Tim, go ask Olga for the thermometer." He doesn't hear him go, but he must. "All right, honey, lift your head, c'mon…"

Huh…?

He does what he's told. Dove feels around his neck and for a second it feels as though she's working a clump of dirt up out of his throat. Nothing comes, though, and he lets his head drop back against Dick's shoulder.

"All right…thank you, Tim." Tim and Olga are both here now-Tim on the bed and Olga behind Dove. The thermometer slips between his lips. "Two minutes, don't talk."

Mm.

He's tired and it's an effort to hold it in place. But he manages, and Dove finally takes it back, looks at it, and shrugs.

"You're fine." Well. Fine for a walking corpse, anyway. "Just warming up from…being out in the rain."

From digging his way out of a coffin, but there's no reason to argue semantics. He was outside, that's enough.

Dick lets him go back down, and he's barely gotten comfortable again before he nods back off.

He's aware of hushed voices over him, of fingers resting against his throat from time to time and of palms against his head. But he's not disturbed, not really, until a hesitant hand perches on his shoulder and a deep voice whispers, "Jason?"

 **Bruce.**

It's not Batman's voice. Hell, if Jason's going to be honest, he's never heard Bruce sound like this, unsure and… **emotional**. It sounds like he's going to start crying.

As much as he doesn't want to see that, ever-ever-ever, he pulls his eyes open. The room's dimmer, now, and Bruce is more of a big blur than anything.

"Da?"

The hand on his shoulder trembles, thumb pressing against the top of the scar there, before going to Jason's head. It stays there, fingers combing through a section of his bangs, for a few minutes. He's just starting to wonder what's going on when he's tugged upright and squeezed.

Bruce **is** crying-there's water hitting the top of his head. This is new and frightening territory and he doesn't like it.

But he'll take the hug. Bruce-hugs are a strange and wonderous thing-they should be confining, with how big he is, but instead they're warm and oddly squishy. And right now, more than ever, even more than that time Richardson nearly disemboweled him, he wants the security. Death is going to have to go through Batman to get to him, and that's never a smart move. He's not…he's not going to close his eyes and not wake up.

He can't hug him back-his arms are trapped-but he can press his head against his chest and just breathe.

"Oh, God, Jay," Bruce is saying, voice muffled because his face is pressed against Jason's hair, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

Why? Last Jason knew, he wasn't the one laughing a-and…and-

 **"** **I feel like a fox hunt, boys! Run, run, little Todd**, go on! RUN!"**

He doesn't realize that he's shaking until Bruce practically turns himself into a human straitjacket, hands tense against his back. He's all right. He's all right, J- **he's** not here, everything's all right.

"Da?" he mumbles, tapping a hand against Bruce's thigh. "C'n we go home?"

He's not sure how, but Bruce somehow manages to hug him tighter.

"Yes."

THE END

*Basil Karlo-Clayface. Gaslights!Clayface can be identified by a faint, but noticeable, 'muddy' hue to the eyes. Not brown, but off. _Very_ easy to miss unless you've got good lighting and know what to look for.

**Tod: a male fox. Much to Joker's glee, Jason is a redhead on top of it. You bet your buns the clown had a field day.


	16. Bad Dreams Melt Away

AN: Second bit to the Happier AU Thingy where Jason doesn't get hit with Carriage ex Machina.

* * *

Jason manages to stay awake for the ride home, and he's sorta conscious when Bruce carries him upstairs and puts him in his own bed, but after that? Resurrections are exhausting, apparently, because he sleeps like the-er, like a rock.

He wakes up who-knows-how-many hours later, when the sun screaming high in the sky finally slips in through a crack in the drapes. He's not alone-Tim's curled up in his arms again and Dick and Bruce are crammed into the settee. Bruce, at least, is hunkered down like a hibernating bear, but Dick's both half-in his lap and half-off the settee itself, legs flung around the ottoman. Why can't he ever sit properly…circus freak…

He yawns and wishes Tim would get his bones out of his ribs. The kid's crammed against him so tightly he honestly can't tell if those are elbows or knees or shoulder blades or what, but they're pokey and uncomfortable.

Then again, he'd much rather suffer bones-to-the-ribs than he would a harpoon-through-the-lung, so, actually, never mind. Tim can stay.

Selina and Alfred are out of town, apparently. He thinks something must have happened when he…left…but he was too out of it to push last night. (It **was** last night, wasn't it? He hasn't slept for a week or something?)

He winds his arms a little tighter around Tim's shoulders and wonders if he can go back to sleep. He thinks he wants to. But then again, he could be a little hungry. He's just not sure.

Downstairs, the door flies open and there's **running**. The noise jerks Bruce and Dick awake, resulting in them smacking their heads together and flailing. Tim squirms and mutters something about being sucked into a freak sinkhole before burying his face in Jason's neck and making himself as heavy as possible. What-

His bedroom door opens with enough force to slam it into the wall and then everything's just. Still.

Selina and Alfred hover in the hallway for a minute, maybe two, before Alfred whispers, _"Master Jason."_

He thought Bruce being upset was bad? He didn't know how good he had it. Alfred's eyes are very, very shiny and his mustache is quivering.

"Hi, Alfie."

He's not sure if that was the right thing to say or not. The mustache does not stop quivering, but Alfred comes over and…sort of falls…into the chair by his bed. This is terrifying. Alfred doesn't…he is the rock. For a while there, in the beginning, Jason hadn't been sure he wasn't some sort of lifelike steam-powered machine.

He aims for normalcy.

"C'n I have a few days to catch up on our book before we talk about it?"

Tim moves. Alfred leans over and gathers Jason up, one hand against his back and the other in his hair. He smells the same as he ever did, that peculiar blend of black tea and lavender and library.

Hugging Alfred has always been a vaguely frightening experience. Not because he's not free with them; on the contrary, despite the stuffiness and the primness and everything, he's a very affectionate person. S'just. There's always some underlying terror of 'don't mess up his suit' and 'don't break him, he's old'. But now? He's shakier than Alfred's ever been and he's happy to latch onto him and never let go.

The bed dips down and a hesitant hand rests between his shoulder blades.

"Jason?" Selina whispers. "Good God-how-"

Maybe- **maybe** -one day he'll tell Bruce. But **only** Bruce, and only if he swears on his parents' graves **and** on Jason's to keep his mouth shut. But right now? He doesn't wanna talk about it and it'll be easier for everyone if they think he doesn't remember and don't…they can't make it better. Not that. He doesn't want them to try.

"I don't remember," he says, wishes his voice wouldn't catch. "I don't remember, I-I just woke up a-an' Dove said. Said Bruce was coming."

He doesn't have to look to know that Dick and Tim are shooting Bruce the Shut-the-Hell-Up looks. That's all right.

At some point, Selina pulls him away from Alfred, who murmurs something about hot soup. He ducks his head against her neck and listens to the pulse there.

 **No more going through.**

Where'd that come from?

Never mind. Doesn't matter. He's home and safe and everyone…they didn't…they still want him.

"Oh, _Jason_ ," Selina breathes, nails scratching lightly against the nape of his neck. "Okay, kitten, okay…good God, look at you-"

One hand brushes against the bandages on his arm and follows them downwards. He wonders, a bit, if she'll say something-nobody else has-but she doesn't, just curls her fingers around his.

"Look at you…" Selina whispers again. Her other hand combs through his bangs (hadn't Bruce…? Why's everyone suddenly…?) "Look at you, Jay-bird, oh, my God…"

Warm tears hit his head and some part of him panics because Selina never cries. Well. When she an' Bruce got married, she did, but other than that? Her eyes are drier than stone.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and she manages, somehow, to hold him tighter. There's a few aborted words, one or two shaky inhales, and then she gives up and starts sobbing into his hair.

* * *

He wrangles a few minutes to just **breathe** after getting some soup down. Said he wanted a bath. Considered making a 'smell like death' joke and thought better of it.

Even though it was funny.

Now that the door's shut and locked behind him, he can take a look at himself for the first time since…since.

It's a shock. The boy in the mirror has old man's eyes, like the ones you see in people that remember the War. His face is scraped up a bit, but…but that's not what catches his attention, not really.

The section of his bangs, the bit everyone's been fussing with, it's…it's gone white. It feels the same as the rest of his hair, it's not that, it's just…there's not even a hint that it should be red.

Stripping out of his shirt is worse. The…the scar from…the 'Y'…he can **see** , in some places, where the hand holding the needle was shaking. It juts up from the rest of his skin, raw an' red an' impossible to ignore, and it's because of it that he nearly misses the **other** scar, above his right lung.

That one's smaller, at least in comparison. It's mostly round, barring the line popping out from one side-

 _Everything hurts, please, please-_

 _Tears mix with blood and sweat and that_ _ **face**_ _looms over him, lips stretched wide over yellow teeth, and then there's piercing pressure against his ribs, followed by the scrape of metal against bone before they crack and give and_ _ **God-**_

He sucks in a gasp, realizes that he's pressed his hand against his chest like Mama used to.

The eyes in the mirror look impossibly older, now. He can't keep eye contact with his reflection and ends up sliding into the copper tub without another look.

Dick and Tim are still in his room when he finally emerges, hair still wet and clothes loose enough to keep from brushing against the scars too much. The others are gone, and the door is closed.

"Need me to redo your hands?" Dick asks. Jason glances at them. They're raw and swollen, but the water had helped.

"In a little bit. They need to breathe."

The bath wore him out. He's trembling and weak like he was when he was sick last January, and crawling back under the covers is a welcome relief.

Lying on his back brings to mind hard wood and falling bugs, but lying on his stomach makes the scars that much more noticeable, so his side it is. He's barely gotten comfortable before Dick's vaulted over him to wrap around him like a monkey and Tim squirms up against his chest like a little kid.

Well. Um.

Right, then.

Dick's breathing evens out first, settles into soft puffs against the back of his neck, and when Jason reaches back to poke him, he doesn't so much as tense against the fingers dancing against that ticklish spot on his ribs.

"This doesn't make any sense," Tim mumbles. "It's not a hallucination, but…it's impossible."

What, so he's supposed to know the secrets of Life now? Gee, talk about unreasonable expectations.

"I dunno, Timmy." He hangs his hands off the bed, where they'll be safe from being rolled on, and looks at his bookshelf. It's dust-free, but it's…it's gotten that look that furniture gets when its owner's been away for a long time. Like it went to sleep. "Somethin' in the soil, I guess."

Tim makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and presses his head against Jason's ribs, hands creeping up to latch onto his shirt. One finger presses lightly against the

 **Scalpel slices neat as you please to peel the skin back off the bone**

against That, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he says something else.

"He's dead."

The weight of that **He** sucks the air out of the room, leaving Jason feeling like he's taken a boot to the chest. Dick doesn't stir and Tim doesn't say anything else, and he knows, somehow, that he should let this go. Tim's too still to be comfortable. He doesn't want to hear this, not today, maybe not at all.

But then again, he's never been one to hide from bad news.

"How."

For a minute, he thinks he won't get an answer. But then, "We killed him."

 **WHAT.**

"Tim-"

"We tracked him down, a-and. And we brought him down ta Old Gotham. So the noise wouldn't. You know. And. And Dick, he-I've never, not even on the job, he-" He swallows, fingers trembling, and Jason doesn't want to hear any more. "He had a crowbar, the bastard wasn't going to move again and he just kept **hitting-** "

That might be new to Tim, but Jason's seen Dick that angry once before. Only the once, when they were kids. Some rich brat, one'a the ones that gives their nanny the slip to explore the slums for 'fun', had said somethin' about his parents, and while Jason had been all for teaching the brat some manners, Dickie…Dickie had probably scarred him for life. He'd probably never scarpered out the back ever again, which, really, s'for the best.

Tim's still babbling, voice muffled and lips scarcely moving-or moving too fast, maybe. He can't tell.

"-and he wouldn't stop laughing, Jay, he wouldn't. Stop. Laughing."

"S'all right, Timmy," he says faintly, because what else is there to say? He can still hear the giggling, muffled as it is, feel the clown's weight as he sprawled over him to work the harpoon the rest of the way through-

 **"** **Flop, flop, flop, little fish!"**

Tim shakes his head.

"He was watching me. The whole time I…we had saws. A-and when Dick stepped back, when he wasn't moving anymore…we couldn't take any chances, and. And I started sawing and he **wouldn't shut up-** "

He chokes and his arms come up to wind around Jason's neck so he can cling harder, like he used to do when they were little and he'd had nightmares. He's crying now, that unsettling silent-sob that he does, and Jason's…stunned. Spooked. Angry, a little, at Bruce for not stopping them.

No. No, he's really not that angry at Bruce. He would've…if it had been Tim, or Dick, he would've hunted the bastard down and done the same thing. It's incredibly easy to avoid Batman if you know what you're doing.

"S'okay, Tim," he breathes. "S'okay. He's." He swallows, blinks back memories of bulbous, watery eyes and too-long teeth. "He's stopped."

"M'sorry, Jay," Tim's whispering. "M'sorry, m'sorry-"

Dick shifts, almost imperceptibly, and one hand comes up to flop heavily down on Tim's head. Tim doesn't react to it.

Twenty minutes later, he's still and Jason's neck is sticky and wet and…yeah. This is incredibly uncomfortable. But he doesn't have it in him to move, either, and he settles for trying to wipe everything off on Tim's hair. Behind him, Dick chuckles. It's a broken sound, one that Jason would happily never hear again.

"He didn't hurt you?" he asks, doesn't know why. Clearly they're both fine. Dick's other hand pats his stomach-getting untangled from everybody is going to be a nightmare-and he squirms up so his head's over Jason's. Jason, for a minute, remembers Dick being able to pick him up. It hadn't been for long, but there was a time, when they first met, that his clingy older brother could carry him around like a grumpy teddy bear.

He kind of misses being a grumpy teddy bear.*

"We surprised him," Dick explains. "I think he was expecting Bruce, and…well."

Well, indeed. He twists enough to roll onto his back, somehow not disturbing Tim, and tucks his head under Dick's neck.

"T'anks, Dickie."

He gets a kiss to the head for his troubles, followed by a, "I'm sorry, Jay."

"For what?"

"I should've kept a better eye on you." Um. "I'm older, s'my job to look after you an' Tim, an' I didn't-"

"Shut up." He elbows him in the stomach. Absolutely nothing happens. "I'm not a baby, it's not your job to make sure I don't get snatched off the street."

"Clearly Bruce can't be trusted to do it," is the dark reply, and Jason suspects he's just found out why Bruce wasn't with them last night. He does not want to go down that road. Not right now. There's only so much information he can handle.

"It's nobody's fault but J-" He can't say it. He wants to, he just…the word won't come. "But his."

Tellingly, he doesn't get an answer. Just a squeeze.

He lets this go, too. He's too tired for this. And that's fine. It's better, anyway, to make sure his hands are still and pulled up against his stomach, where they're safe and out of the way, and to close his eyes, and just…just breathe.

The door opens and somebody comes in. Selina, as it turns out-her hand's light on his head, and she does that thing with her thumb that reminds him of petting cats. Feels nice. Reminds him, a little bit, of Mama, before she got sick.

He wonders, suddenly, if. If he saw her, when he was…before he…

Between Tim's snuffly breaths, Selina's hand, and Dick's warmth, it really isn't his fault that he starts falling back asleep. It's not as though he's fighting it, anyway. Maybe…maybe he can remember f'he saw Mama, while he was gone.

He hopes he did.

THE END

*Jason is still a grumpy teddy bear. Just. A jumbo-sized one from Costco.


	17. Forgive Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

AN: Modern-day Crane, as I write him, has exactly zero patience for the religious folk, but he doesn't actively seek them out. Most of the time. 1800s Crane, on the other hand…

In case it wasn't obvious by now, he's bitter and murderous and his views do not reflect mine.

NOTE: Gaslights!Scarecrow will appear in this year's Halloween collection-tentatively titled 'Unfounded Belief'-under the one-shot titled 'Shatter Like Glass', so if you're enjoying these, keep an eye out.

* * *

The church doors open with an echoing _cr-ee-aa-k!_ that Bruce wishes he could silence. Inside, there is one hollowed-out pumpkin with a candle inside, sitting innocuously on the altar. Other than that, it's dark. Maybe no one's here…

No. No, he can see heads in the pews. Nobody turns to look at him and he's not sure if that's good or bad. Something feels wrong. He's thinking it's bad.

"They say the Devil can quote scripture."

The voice is low and raspy, the acoustics of the building making it sound like it's coming from everywhere at once. Bruce freezes, back to the door. The pumpkin isn't giving out nearly enough light, and the flickering candle makes it impossible to tell if that was a shadow or something moving.

"They never wonder if the Devil can beg forgiveness." A chuckle skips out of the darkness. Bruce props the door open with a stone and inches forward, towards the back pew. "Shall we find out?"

Bruce bends over to look at the nearest person. It was…once a woman…but her **face**. It's twisted and stretched and her mouth has ripped a little at the corners. He only feels a little bad for being relieved that she's dead.

 **SLAM!**

He whips around. The doors have closed. Then what little light the pumpkin has to offer is extinguished, plunging the church into total darkness.

 ** _"_** ** _I see you, little Bat,"_** a new voice hisses. **_"But you are walking blind, aren't you?"_**

Not exactly. He can see vague shapes, at least.

"They did nothing to you."

 ** _"_** ** _They made me!"_** the voice shrieks, echoing from the high ceilings and the hard floors to make a cacophony of **_"MADE ME MADE ME MADE ME!"_** Bruce stills, sliding a specialized shuriken (Dick insists on calling them Batarangs, but he refuses to indulge in such nonsense) into his fingers. It's a warm, comforting weight. **_"They did_** ** _everything_** ** _to me."_**

All right. Maniac with a grudge. Bruce can work with this.

"Tell me," he says, wishing his back had a wall behind it, rather than all this open space. "What did they do?"

"No." Two voices? No, there's similarities. One man, two voices. And the first one is now raspier than it was, strained from the shouting. Hrm. "I will do the mental dissecting here, Batman."

Soft-spoken, perfect enunciation. Educated, then. That narrows the field a little, at least. Likely to have an abusive upbringing, heavy with religion. Sister Leslie would weep if she knew.

"You're hiding from something, aren't you?" The voice has moved closer. Bruce won't lie, he's unsettled that he can't pinpoint the speaker. "Something that makes you **_weak_** …"

There.

He flings the shuriken into the blackness. If it hits its target, there's no indication.

 ** _"_** ** _What happened to your little flock?"_** Now that he's listening, he can hear the effort it must take to speak. **_"Did they fly away?"_**

He's glad, now, that he made the boys stay in. Jason and Tim have tangled with this man already, and he'd rather not go three for three. Besides, it's…better…that they're out of the way. His nightmares have been known to be violent, he'd never forgive himself if he turned on them in a panic.

"Leave them out of this," he warns, making his way towards the now-extinguished pumpkin. "You'll rue the day you were born if you lay a hand on them."

 ** _"_** ** _How about a scythe?"_**

WHAT-

 **SCHWING!**

It's reflexes, and nothing more, that have him dropping and rolling just as sharp, curving metal sweeps over where his head had been. He kicks blindly behind him, hits nothing, and then-

-all is silent.

Breathing deeply, Bruce scurries towards the alter, feels around until his hand hits gourd, and lights the candle inside. The light doesn't go nearly far enough, and he can't be sure if those shadows are candlelight or Scarecrow.

He does wish, a bit, that Selina had come, but she's working on the other side of town-a banker there has been…careless…with the money entrusted to him. Bruce is well aware that the man is likely to emerge from the encounter crying and with a brutally scratched face, but it can't be helped.

 ** _"_** ** _Afraid of the dark, little Bat?"_** He picks up the pumpkin and carries it into the pews. The light catches bits of the people there, jaws ripped or dislocated, eyes clawed out, tongues bitten clean through and fallen into laps. One woman's rammed her little gold cross into her infant's neck; the infant lies lifeless on the floor. **_"There's a first time for everything…"_**

There. A flash of moving fabric. He gives no sign that he saw anything and keeps walking, ready to drop the pumpkin and duck again if need be.

 ** _"_** ** _Boo."_**

But he was just-

Bruce whirls, pumpkin falling and fists flying, only to have his legs taken out from under him by the shaft of the scythe. He hits the ground, Bibles pressing against his back, and before he can get back up there's a sword stabbing through armor and flesh and cape and pinning him to the floor by the arm.

Two. They _were_ working together.

He kicks out and struggles against the sword in his arm (it _burns_ it burns like Hellfire), but it only wobbles. Scarecrow chuckles above him and there's the sound of a match being lit.

The one near his head is short and a woman, but that's all he can tell-they're grey. Grey cloak, grey dress, grey boots, with a hood hanging down to shadow their face. Scarecrow, on the other hand…

The burlap face and the scythe are the only things remotely related to his name. The rest of him is wrapped in a leather riding coat and thick black gloves. He's tall, maybe taller than Bruce himself, and the black pits for eyes seem to glow in the matchlight.

 ** _"_** ** _Are you afraid of fire, too?"_** He tilts his head exaggeratedly to the left. **_"Let's find out!"_**

And then he drops the match.

It lands on Bruce's cape and for a second-one beautiful second-he thinks it won't catch. But then. Then there's the unmistakable crackling of fabric taking flame, and at once, smoke begins to billow around them. Scarecrow is laughing, head thrown back (falling off it's falling off his shoulders) and the bodies on the pews join him. The dropped infant pulls itself up and totters towards him, cross-chain swinging against its little body with every step it takes.

"Ba!" it babbles. "Ba! Ba! Ba! BA! BA! BA!"

 ** _"_** ** _Welcome to my world, little Bat!"_** Scarecrow screams. Spiders fall from behind his teeth and into the fire. **_"Screaming won't help…but you may as well do it anyway."_**

He will not. This isn't real. This is an illusion, hypnosis, a drug, _something._ It isn't real.

"Ba! Ba! Ba!"

The infant's hands grab his cowl and he jerks his head and tries to bat it away, finds that he can move his arm. He can get up.

Scarecrow and the Grey Lady are gone. The bodies on the pews are still chuckling, but he cannot help them. He…he has to…

"Why, Bruce?"

"Leslie?"

"Why weren't you faster?" Blood. So much of it, covering her habit and her skin. "Why did you come if you weren't going to help?"

"I tried," he whispers. The fire eating at his cape seems to giggle mockingly. "I tried, I'm sorry-"

"WHERE WERE YOU?"

He's never run from her before, but God help him, he runs now, stumbling through the church and out into the rain, clawing at his cape to get it off getitoffGETOFF.

Outside is lighter, but the streets are pitching under him and the voices in the church are still loud, so loud.

He needs to get home.

He needs…he needs to…

The cape, burned and half-ruined, finally falls from his neck and into a puddle, where it extinguishes with a soft _hiss!_ Bruce falls to his knees, breathing heavily, and tries to get up. Truly, he tries. But the street _leaps_ , hurling him facedown onto the cobblestones, and then he knows no more.

THE END


	18. Baby Bird

AN: Tim remains Penguin's personal favorite: Dick uses his furniture for gymnastics practice and Jason has been known to terrorize the Delivery Service. Also, look at his name. Penguin has adopted a duckling. Sort of.

Ah, we return! Those NOT keeping up over Halloween (shame!): 'Unfounded Belief' contains a handful of one-shots set in the _Gaslights_ 'verse: 'Shatter Like Glass', 'Silver Gaze', 'Do No Harm', and 'Skip to My Lou'.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot is known in selected circles as The Penguin. He relishes in the absurdity. Penguins are an odd, awkward type of bird, and although he is well aware that the nickname comes from his gait, he likes it. It puts would-be enemies off their guard, and an off-guard man is infinitely easier to dispatch of than an on-guard one.

And penguins are…endearing, in their own way.

"-have been **killed** , what were you **thinking-** "

He narrows his eyes at the door. His little group of snitches returned today with valuable information. Unfortunately, they also returned slightly maimed. The older two are receiving a dressing-down. The youngest is in here.

Ordinarily, Oswald does not like people in his office, and certainly not when he's working. But Timothy Drake (and he knows the name, but it doesn't serve him to meddle) is quiet.

And, admittedly, he brought a plateful of scones in with him. That is an acceptable payment.

Timothy is unharmed. Richard apparently has an inured wrist (ahh, his banisters are spared further acrobatics!) and Jason needs stitches in his shoulder. Dove and Olga are…

"-cannot believe you-"

They aren't happy.

No matter. As long as they don't die, he does not care what mental trauma they suffer.

He reaches for his tea, finds himself out, and frowns. He doesn't want to get up. He is comfortable, the chill is making his bad knee ache as it is, and, quite frankly, he doesn't wish to be caught in the crossfire. Olga had snarled something about stuffing Jason into a matryoshka doll*, since he was so fond of being carved into a smaller version of himself. Where **that** threat had stemmed from, Oswald has no idea, but if anybody could stuff a small boy into a smaller wooden doll, well…

Tellingly, there'd been no backtalk.

"Timothy." He may as well make himself useful. "Go to the kitchen and tell Miriam to brew me another pot of tea."

"Awwight, Mister Cobblepot."

Hm. It's been six months, and the boy's upper-crust accent has already worn itself down to nearly nothing. Idly, he wonders how long it would take for it to return.

Dove stops shouting-probably to draw a breath-and Richard pipes up in a desperate attempt to save himself.

"We didn't mean ta-"

Olga rolls straight over him with a curt, "No."

Silence.

He is in the middle of some…delicate…paperwork when Timothy returns, tongue between his teeth and tea tray in his hands. Ah. Tea. Perhaps these boys are good for more than snooping, after all.

"Here it is, Mister Cobblepot."

"Thank you." Three more minutes pass. Oswald is positive Timothy does not blink at all in that time. "Did you need something."

"What's that."

FFFF-

Well. He's bolder than he looks, isn't he?

Although.

Oswald does not know or particularly care about the circumstances that led to the Drake's demise and their son's…current predicament. He does know, however, that Jack Drake was no fool in, ha, shall he say, **special** business arrangements. Not that that's any of his business.

"An order to India," he says shortly. There. That should be enough.

Should be, but is not. Timothy inches a little closer, eyes still wide, and Oswald resists the urge to prod his forehead. Perhaps his eyes are stuck, and need a good jab to get them to close again.

"Tea?"

"No." He throws Maroni's skull-acquired, in a manner of speaking, at an auction-a long-suffering look. "Shouldn't you be taking an afternoon nap?"

It's only for a second, but Timothy's expression could kill a man.

"I could help. Be a second pair of eyes."

"No." He turns his attention to his papers and pretends the boy isn't still lurking **right there**. "Now run along, I am not a nanny."

Up until today, Oswald had Timothy neatly pigeonholed as the Timid (ha-ha) one. At this very moment, however, he is proven wrong.

"The dockmaster says he's going to start doubling down on cargo ships coming from India," he says, and Oswald is **aware** , thank you. He has the man paid off. He knows how to run a criminal empire. "He's got dogs now."

…

Is that so.

He looks up, ready to order the boy out of his office, and.

And just for a moment, he could be looking in a mirror to his child-self. Timothy is a scraggly, small-boned little thing, not unlike a half-grown dove, with big eyes and an oddly round face.

And he's clearly no fool, child or not.

Oswald is not so foolish as to train a child in the business of…well. In the Business. Take it from one who was there, boys raised in this life will murder their way to the top, and Oswald **is** the top. However…there is always room to advance in his organization, and he wouldn't be above having a secretary one day. Sionis had one. It worked well for him, hence the reason Mister Li is now fish food.

"Sit down," he says gruffly. "If you don't ask a thousand questions, you may observe."

"C'n I ask a couple'a questions?"

"If they aren't stupid ones."

Timothy must find that agreeable, because he shoves the visitor's chair 'round to the side, clambers onto it, and leans over.

"So do you have someone set up to take the blame if it goes wrong?"

Oswald smiles. Smart boy, indeed. He could grow to actively like this one.

THE END

*Nesting dolls.


	19. A Hand in the Dark

William-oh, her mistake, 'Big Bill', oh, please, this isn't a cheap adventure novel-Dust can be described in many ways. Dove's preferred one? Ratbag, not that she'd say that to his face. Even if it is true.

Today, though, she might have to come up with a new one-he's…acquired…a boy. A scrawny, filthy boy with wide eyes and quick reflexes. Said reflexes are currently keeping him out of range of Dust's sledgehammer of a fist, but he's backing himself into a corner.

"What's going on?" She's out of the cab before it's come to a complete stop. "Mister Dust, what is the meaning of this?" The boy looks from her to Dust and back again, clearly confused. "Never mind. I'll take this. When I get back, you'd better have that money or Mister Cobblepot will have to come down here himself, do I make myself clear?"

She gets a derogatory snort, but she lets it slide in favor of beckoning the boy over. He comes, slowly and clearly frightened, and she shoes him into the cab.

Poor thing. He's a mess-grimy and hollow-eyed and thin. No different than any of the street urchins, really, but it's easy to forget how rough it can be until you're staring one in the face.

"My name is Dove Marquis, I work for Mister Dust's…employer."

"The Penguin," the boy mumbles, and that's no Gotham accent. _Shit_ , if Dust's kidnapped a boy they'll have to send him back, Cobblepot has his limits and kidnapping is one of them- "He said so."

"That's right. Do you have a name?"

"Richard Grayson, but ev'ryone calls me Dick."

Grayson…where has she…oh. _Oh._ She remembers those headlines-six months back, a terrible accident.

Well. Supposedly. There were whispers…negligence, police failings…but for his sake, she hopes he buys into what the papers said.

"Good to meet you, Dick." She gives him a smile and gets one back, a little wobbly, but there. "Where'd he pick you up, huh?"

"I ran away from the workhouse."

She can't blame the boy, really. She remembers the insides of those places well enough. Nobody lingers for long, not if they can help it.

"Well, let's get you cleaned up a bit, get some food in you, and go from there. Sound good?"

"Why? What do you want?"

Well, at least he's learned Life Lesson Number One: you don't get something for nothing.

"At the moment? To make you into less of a mess."

* * *

She hands him off to Olga, who takes one horrified look before marching him upstairs. Dove considers telling her not to drown him, but refrains. Olga's formidable at the best of times-she used to work in body-snatching before Penguin hired her on-and there's no reason for Dick to start panicking that she'll do it out of spite.

Besides, Dove's not entirely sure that near-miss with the strychnine was an accident. Mostly sure, but not entirely.

Dick is returned, a little wet, and with decidedly shorter hair, but unharmed and only minimally traumatized, about an hour later. Olga abandons him in the kitchen, muttering darkly about eels, and vanishes to the attic, feather duster in hand.

"Much better," she says brightly, and he stares at her with the biggest, saddest eyes she's ever seen on a human being. "That didn't hurt…oh, really, stop it. You're fine."

"I think there was blood on those clippers."

"Nonsense." Truth. Olga lopped off part of somebody's ear once. On purpose-the man made a smart remark. He doesn't make them anymore. "You hungry?"

"You're not gonna shove me in the oven for Penguin, right?"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"Doesn't 'e eat people?"

"No…" Children. Children are a strange, strange set of creatures. "How's about a scone, huh? They're lemon."

"'Kay." He clambers into a chair and looks at the set of knives on the counter. "You're _sure_ 'e doesn't eat people?"

"Really sure."

"Mister Dust says 'e does."

It's a toss-up as to whether or not Cobblepot will laugh at that or go on a rampage.

"Just a scary story." She slides a plate of scones over to him and puts the kettle on. "So how'd you give Matron Maeye the slip, huh?"

He grins and just like that, she can see a hint of the circus boy he'd been before-the show must go on.

"So there was a window that was too high for us ta reach, right? Jus' a decorative one or somethin'…"

* * *

Penguin is less than enthused to find a nine-year-old boy in his house that afternoon. Well. For all of two minutes, until he has a Thought. Dove sees it hit him-the scowl turns pensive, and then it turns upside-down, and then it _grows_ , the rather unsettling smile splitting his face like a Glasgow.

"How would you like to do some work for me, Mister Grayson?"

Dick doesn't look thrilled, but he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin and his voice only shakes a little when he says, "What kind?"

"Nothing serious. Just a little listening."

"Listening?"

"Mm-hmm." Gentle nodding, and the boss limps forward, lurching a little without his cane, and puts a hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's right. Just a little listening. You see, Mister Grayson, my position is a precarious one, and there's always a vulture or two circling above me."

"Um…"

"But you might be able to weed out those vultures if you just…hang about the shipyards and see what you pick up."

"I can try."

"Excellent." He pats the boy's head and moves towards his study. "Don't worry about finding me, I'll find you."

Cobblepot has a lot of skills. Children-skills are not among them. Dove sighs and starts clearing the dishes.

"He won't hurt you, _chéri_. Don't worry."

Dick doesn't look convinced, but he brings his cup over to her anyway.

"What if there's nothin' to pick up?"

"Then there's nothing. He'll pay you regardless, honey. Yours to keep, not to hand over."

"An' 'e's not gonna eat me?"

Will he ever let that go?

"No. Now come along, your boss owes my boss money."

THE END


	20. It Had to be Done

AN: Or, Bruce is no fool. He knows what happened with the clown.

* * *

Tim has been in a fog for seven days, two hours, eight minutes and thirty-eight…thirty-nine…forty…seconds.

And counting.

The Joker has been dead and burnt for five days and counting. Well. Dead for seven. Arrangements had to be made. He hadn't been…intact…enough for the medical students to take him, as they might have done otherwise, and Tim feels a little bad for that, but…but this way, he can't come back.

He doesn't remember very much of it. Trauma response, he thinks, like when his parents died, or Jay's funeral. There's just flashes-laughing, and garish colors, and a sudden **hucgh** when the laughter finally **stopped.** After that, there's nothing. Next thing he remembers is Dove wrapping his fingers around a shot glass and saying, "I want you to take this. Straight down, right now."

He's not sure why. It was Penguin's Good Vodka, the kind he gets imported straight from Russia and keeps locked up in his study. He remembers that. It didn't taste like anything, but it must've done something because his memories get a lot clearer from that point on.

Except for the gaps. Dick's worried, he knows, because sometimes he'll blink and Dick will be **there** , cupping his face and saying his name. He'd worry more, but Dick has gaps like that, too, sometimes. He'll just…he'll get stuck, sort of, folding and unfolding and refolding say, a shirt. Over and over and over and over and over until Tim makes him stop.

It had to be done. This is just the price they pay for it.

They haven't. They haven't seen Bruce, since. Well. Not up close-two nights ago they caught a glimpse of him on a rooftop, just for a second before they scurried down an alley like rats and vanished into a crowd of drunken revelers. It had been somebody's birthday.

It's easier than you'd think, to avoid Bruce. At least, if you know where to go.

It's worse, Tim thinks, to know that he's a man under there. Jason used to tease him, Before, about the Bat bein' some kinda **creature** that drank the blood of the guilty and bottled souls for some nefarious purpose. But now, knowing better, it's…it's **maddening** , to think that someone has the arrogance to believe that they can save a city. There's a reason they don't venture out of Old Gotham much now. You can save a scrap of humanity, maybe. No more than that. Try for more, and people slip through the cracks.

Besides, they've got contacts down there. Penguin's crew'll help them out sometimes-Charlie, especially, will sweep them up in a big bear hug before sending them to some place or other, and there's always results for it.

Bruce is here. Bruce is here and Tim doesn't know how long he's **been** here. He's just standing there, looking at them and he's **angry** and **hurting** but.

But. He doesn't have the right, not really.

"Boys."

Dick huffs. Tim pretends he doesn't notice him moving between himself and Bruce. Dick may not realize that he's doing it, and it…it doesn't matter anyway.

"What do you want."

"What do you know about the Joker."

Of course.

Tim doesn't know, will never know, but he…he suspects. It was just such a coincidence that the clown had…of all the people to kidnap at random…

He was smarter than people would think, to look at him. It's not at all out of the realm of possibility that he figured it out. And that…the last little lair they found, in some innocuous little apartment, it had been filled to the brim with… **things.** Clippings and drawings and nonsensical notes and even a handmade **doll**. Obsession is too light a word.

And it went both ways, in the end. Not to that degree, but it was there all the same.

"Three guesses, B," Dick says lightly, and **there's** that circus background-the show must go on. "First two don't count."

The anger just bleeds away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion and raw grief. Tim swallows the biting comment forming on his tongue, knows, deep down, that it's unwarranted.

But it isn't the same. Bruce took them in, yes, gave them a home, but their relationship…it's dependent, there's a power imbalance. What they had before was…different. They all ate or none of them did. They had to look after their own.

"Dick—"

"Come to drag us off to Arkham?" He wouldn't. He might…he might try to lock them in the attic or something, but not Arkham.

Surely.

Bruce bristles and grows and Tim mentally reassess the situation. Just a little bit.

"What has gotten into you?"

"Honest question." Dick shrugs, muscles moving smoother than a snake's. "I'm sure you got to take a look before they lit him up."

Dick is not helping things. Tim knows his game-rile their opponent, distract, make an opening for an attack from the side.

Or an escape.

"That's enough," he says softly, steps out and into a patch of lamplight. "He's not sending us away. Are you?"

Bruce softens, as much as he ever does, and shakes his head.

"No, Tim. But neither of you are…you're not **well**."

Says the man who puts on bat ears and goes out at night to punch criminals in the face. Mister Pot, he'd like to introduce you to Mister Kettle.

"He wasn't going to stop," he says, wishes he'd grow more **now** so he wouldn't have to strain to look Bruce in the eye. "He was never going to stop. So it doesn't matter that he's dead because now he won't hurt anyone else!"

Bruce is still. Dick isn't-he's rolling his wrists, just a little. Just enough to dislodge the tiny blades he keeps in his sleeves, the ones that settle in between his fingers and give his punch that much more of a **bite**. They can cut through the cowl, with enough force behind them, can maybe even keep cutting down to the bone.

"Tim." Bruce sounds…desperate. Lost. Tim can't remember him ever sounding like that. "Tim, you need to calm down."

He wishes Selina would have come. Selina might have understood. Or at least admitted that, _no, Kitten, I don't get it, but why don't you tell me, hrm?_

But then again, there's a lot of things Tim wishes. He wishes his parents were still alive, sometimes. Wishes Jay wasn't dead. Wishes, when he's alone and doesn't have to pretend to anyone, that they'd never met Bruce Wayne. So far, no genie-in-a-bottle has come to grant any of those.

Just like that, he's nine again, in too-big clothes (that scarf they found, bigger than him, that his brothers used to insist he wear 'cause 'you're fragile, a stiff breeze'll kill ya', he'd forgotten that-). And he's in Penguin's office, and the man's not looking at him, not really, but he says, smooth and easy, "Wait until they've written you off, and strike **hard**."

Jason pops up behind him, and this is a different memory bleeding in, but the advice is no less valid.

"You get one shot, Timmy," he's saying, giving nine-year-old Tim a little shove. "You make it a good one, or you're fucked."

They're not going to Arkham. But they're not going back to the Manor, either.

"You need to get the hell out of here," Dick says in the here-and-now, and Tim, from where he is, sees him coiling up like a spring. "If you're not going to try and take us in, then go."

Bruce's eyes narrow.

"You killed a man."

"We killed a monster! He broke out of Arkham twice, it wasn't working! You weren't going to stop him, so we did!"

 **"Dick—"**

And Dick **moves** , lunging forward with the knives shining in his knuckles. Bruce leaps back-

-but he's not factoring in Tim. Tim, who's rolling sideways to draw his staff and strike at that ankle that's never quite healed since a horse-thief got a lucky hit last winter. It rolls and drops him, and then Dick's grabbing Tim's arm and sprinting for the edge of the roof. They've only got seconds.

They only need seconds. They can fall just fine, can vanish into the pub below, dimly lit and smoky and crowded.

He's glad, he decides, that Selina didn't come. She'd have taken Bruce's side, and…and this way, he can pretend otherwise. Just a little bit.

THE END


	21. Awkward First Impressions

In hindsight, lurking- **standing** -in the kitchen doorway without announcing his presence was…maybe not the best idea.

But. The younger two, Jason and Tim, were there, getting what appeared to be jam sandwiches, and he hadn't wanted to startle them. And, too, the detective part of him wanted to observe them. Just a little.

Tim is the youngest of the group, and the smallest. Something about him is familiar, and later Bruce has every intention of figuring out what that is. But for now, he's content to watch him needle his…older brother?...about the correct way to make a jam sandwich.

"—be an even spread. Even. One layer. **No clots.** "

"You wanna make it?" Tim wilts a little and mutters something. Jason looks down and says, grinning, "What was that?"

"Can't reach."

"Nope. So shut it, titmouse."

Tim's only response is kick him half-heartedly in the ankle. Bruce swallows a chuckle.

Jason, he does recognize, though it's a bit of a surprise to see him up and about so soon. The other time he saw the boy, he was asleep and being carried after a run-in with…Bruce hates to refer to him as Jim, because the Jim he knew…

Never mind. He's clearly doing better. That's good.

He must make a sound, or maybe they just register his presence. Either way, one minute Tim's hopping up and down to critique Jason's sandwich skills, and the next he's been shoved backwards into the drawers and Jason's snapping, "You touch him and you're dead."

What happened.

"I'm not—"

"You think I dunno what single rich men take kids in for?" WHAT. "Think again, old man, we're not goin' down without a fight."

"You seem to be confused—"

"Fuck off."

"Jay," Tim whispers, "he's the **Bat**."

"Yeah, and the commish was the Ripper. How many times do I gotta tell you—"

"I'm not going to hurt any of you," Bruce soothes. He tries a smile, wishes Alfred would come, and holds out his hand. "Will you give me the knife?"

In hindsight, he should have expected Jason to stab him.

* * *

"You shouldn't have done that, Bruce," Selina says from the chaise lounge, turning her book's page with smug satisfaction. Bruce looks at his bandaged hand and says nothing. He'd seen the stab coming in time to move, but he hadn't been fast enough to completely dodge it. The boys had vanished somewhere in the manor (Dick's room, probably), and rather than confess to Alfred that he was maimed by a twelve-year-old, he'd treated the injury himself.

Alfred, he's sure, knows anyway.

"Thank you for the **invaluable** insight."

"You're welcome." She stretches, sets her book aside, and rolls her head over to look at him. "Don't look at me like that, you know it's true. You should have backed away slowly and come back later."

"I wasn't expecting him to actually stab me." He isn't pouting. He **isn't**. Batman does not pout. Selina just laughs at him and rolls to her feet to saunter towards the door.

"Now you know. Don't go looking for them. Let them come to you."

And then she's gone, leaving him with a throbbing hand and the firm knowledge that he knows **nothing** about children. How does he get himself into these situations? He returned to Gotham to clean up the crime problem, that's…that's all. That's all.

Although, he has to admit that it might be bad, and they'll need to do something to avoid a repeat, but…it was pretty funny. It was funny because he wasn't badly hurt, but still.

Somehow, he doesn't think this is what Alfred meant when he started hinting about 'neither of us are getting any younger, sir'.

He shakes his head and makes his way towards his bedroom. Selina's right. They'll come to him when they're ready. Or when Alfred makes them, but that's practically the same thing. In the meantime, he's had a long night, and he feels as though yes, he can spare a few hours for a nap.

THE END


	22. Rise Up, Little Lazarus

AN: Happy (early) death day, Jason! (I'll be a little busy for the next few days, so posting now.)

* * *

Jason wakes, somewhat, to an unfamiliar hand against his cheek. He doesn't like it, and he tries to pull away, but—

Is he awake, really? He remembers…something. Another awakening, on a hard surface. It was cold. There'd been…coins. Something about coins.

The hand leaves and he's just feeling relieved when a stranger's voice says, "What are we supposed to do with him?"

"We wait," someone says. And then there's footsteps and he knows, deep in his bones, that he's alone. Where is he? What's happening?

Horses. Coins. What was it about coins?

He'd been trying to go home, he remembers. He doesn't recall where from, exactly, but he remembers thinking, **Penguin can get me home.**

He's clearly not at Penguin's now. He knows the house staff and besides, Dove and Olga would be looking after him like they've always done when he's sick or hurt. And he's not home, either, because Bruce only has Alfred for house staff (and he doesn't even count, he's family), so…

Kidnapped? Maybe he's been kidnapped. But not as one of the Flock, he's definitely in a bed and nobody kidnapping one of them would be this nice. He's in a nightshirt, too, a little rough but not awful by a long shot.

Why can't he **remember**?

He swallows and tries to open his eyes. They obey his command, and he can see just fine. The room he's in is small, but warm. Brick. Looks like a…like a…is he in the hospital? Why is he in the hospital? Where is everyone?

He'd like to sit up, but his body feels weak and shaky even lying down and he doesn't think he can. In a few minutes. For now, he twists his head from side to side. It **looks** like the hospital, all right. It smells like the hospital. But why is he here, and why is he alone in it? With Bruce's money, he can sit in here all day if he wants. Doesn't…doesn't he want to?

Is Bruce dead? Is everyone dead?

No, he tells himself firmly. Nobody's dead, he's just…maybe he's been very ill. Maybe they're not allowed in because he's sick with…with…something.

He looks at the ceiling again. There's one window, way up and small, probably doesn't open well. Dick could do it, because Dick's a freak, and Tim could do it, because Tim's, well, little, but he doubts his own abilities. Especially now, shaky and weak as he is. The only other way out is the door.

He has to get out, he decides. If he escapes the hospital, well, Bruce should have left him a note or something. If he escapes homicidal maniacs, all the better.

There's voices in the hall and he closes his eyes quick, slows his breathing down to almost nothing.

"—supposed to feed him, I'd like to know," a woman is saying. She sounds cross. "Pour broth down his throat?"

If they're talking about him, he wouldn't complain.

"We do what we can to keep him comfortable," an older voice says. "Either he'll wake, or…or." There's a sigh. "Poor little thing."

If they're talking about him, he's offended. He is not little. Not like Tim. He hit a growth spurt last…last…what day is it?

It doesn't matter right now. Point is, he's not **little** , lady.

This is awful. He wants to go home. Or at least, not be here. It was frightening, sometimes, to wake up to Olga loomin' over him, but it was always with a hot drink or at least a gruff, "Sleep more."

Something's dropped, but he only hears the beginnings of a crash before it's replaced with a louder, echoing, **CLUNK-CLUNK!**

Coins. Coins fell, he remembers that. He'd shifted and they'd fallen down by his ears. What is it about the coins that his head doesn't want to think about?

No, he thinks. No, it's not the coins, it's that they'd fallen onto wood. A wooden floor, or-or something. And he'd been confused then, too, because—

 **"RUN, RUN, TODDERS!"**

Shaky and weak or not, he's upright at that-that **voice** , that godawful, high-pitched scream. But he's alone in the room…except, maybe, for under the bed.

He takes a deep breath and hangs over. There's nothing there, but bein' upside-down makes the blood go to his head and he's quick to go back up, burrow under the stiff sheet.

And he remembers. He was scared, he didn't try to fight him, he didn't, he ran for it because it was the middle of the day, but he wasn't quick enough and then. Then he'd been hurting, and terrified, and.

And then dead.

He pulls up a hand, half-scarred from wood shards, and presses it to his chest. To the raw, itchy scar running from his collarbones to his navel.

They don't know, he thinks. None of them know. He'd gotten out, leaving the coins for his eyes behind in his grave where they belong, and then someone had run him over? Or nearly run him over? One of those. And they didn't recognize him, or didn't care, or **something** , and his family doesn't…they think he's dead, like he's supposed to be.

Tears come, hot and stingingly salty, and the only thing he can think, now, is that he has to get home.

So he swallows back the tears, scrubbing them away with the pillowcase, and looks towards the now-quiet hallway. Shaky limbs be damned. He's leaving.

He wills his legs not to dump him on the floor, takes a few deep breaths, and gets up. The floor's freezing, but there's no shoes to be seen and it's not like he hasn't made do before. He'll worry about shoes and real clothes later. He just needs to figure out where he is and make his way home.

He feels like he's forgotten how to walk, and his knees are knocking together, but he manages to make his way to the door before he needs to stop and lean against the wall. The hall's empty and when it stays that way, he leans out more until he sees two big doors. Okay.

 **You can do it. C'mon.**

He looks both ways, because telling strangers that 'yeah, I'm Bruce Wayne's second…son…ward…child, reports of my death were greatly exaggerated' is not going to go well. That'd just get him sent to Arkham or worse.

Empty. Perfect.

He stumbles towards the doors and **wow** he's never been so out of breath from just **walking** before.

 **Could be the punctured lung…**

He makes it there, wrestles a little with the knobs before shoving the left one open, and takes a beam of sunlight to the face.

He's in Gotham-he'd know that bloody smog smell anywhere-but where, exactly? Yeah…he's…not sure. It's cold, that's basically all he knows, and he. Needs. Clothes.

The 'where' is solved fast enough. He's not far from Petticoat Lane, and it's packed enough that nobody pays a boy in a hospital gown any mind. Death has not dulled his theft skills, and he tries to take note of where he picks things up, but he's thinking Bruce will just have to come and give everyone money later.

Fifteen minutes later, he's dressed enough to wander around and munching on a roll (seemed the safest thing, it's bland). Okay. Home. Home is…home is…home is too damn far. But Penguin has a pub near here, and if he's lucky, one of the men he knows will be working it, and they can help him get home. Or at least let him sit for a few minutes without being mugged.

And honest, that's his plan. It just…goes sideways, horribly sideways, when he reaches up to swat away a fly and smacks his fingers into a dart sticking out of his neck. He claws it out, already panicking, and has enough time to see a man with a sword invade his personal space before he goes under.

THE END


	23. See How They Run

AN: This takes elements from the 'Fear' arc in _Haunted Knight_ , namely the maze and Scarecrow's nursery rhymes. I considered having Batman run the maze, as he does there, but, well, 'three blind mice'...I couldn't help myself. It was going to be a one-shot, but then it wanted to be a three-parter, so stay tuned.

Mood music: Scarecrow's theme, naturally, from _Arkham Asylum._ This takes place prior to 'Shatter Like Glass', so the Robins do not know the Murder Dork's identities just yet.

* * *

It's pouring rain.

Dick mentally slaps himself for the observation. Of _course_ it's pouring rain, it's Gotham. That's the weather here. It's taken him several years to acclimate, but he managed it in the end, which means there's no reason to point out the obvious. Even if it's just to himself.

Bruce is going to be furious, when he finds out what they've done. But. It's just. They _had_ them, they did, they had-they still have-the chance to end the reign of terror. And yeah, Bruce said not to engage, but...but he's not here, and…

And he may be their guardian, and all right, in the privacy of Dick's own mind he...could be...inching towards being some kind of father, but he's not Papa. And Papa always told him that you can't wait for someone else to come and do the right thing. You are the someone else.

Granted, chasing after a pair of serial killers is probably not what Papa had in mind, but…

The point is, they had them. Surprised them, even, and had managed to stay with them.

Right up until they disappeared into the park maze.

The maze has been closed for two years. Two little boys, younger than Tim at the time, had escaped their nanny and run in. By the time they found them, three weeks later, well*. They weren't...exactly alive, anymore. Dick remembers Bill talking about the case with Charlie, when they'd both had a few and hadn't been paying him any attention. Apparently the younger had died first. The elder had. He'd.

There'd been bite marks, clear down to the bone, on the younger. Dick had had nightmares for weeks, and he'd put a blanket ban on going anywhere near the maze. Jason had complained, because Jason always pushes back when Dick says anything, but he'd listened anyway.

But now they're older, wiser, trained. And Scarecrow and the Grey Lady are in here somewhere, and they need to be stopped.

Dick stands still and breathes, the moist air chilling his lungs. He's trying not to panic, he really is. But he's alone, in this green death trap, because they lost sight of them and had to split up. And it's just because it's dark, he knows it, but his imagination is throwing up images of what that scene must have looked like, and what that boy had felt, a-and-

 _Settle down!_

He shakes himself and stalks forward, cape flaring out behind him. He loves the cape. Reminds him of the circus, and it's warm.

All right. All right. He knows how to get out. Just turn around, take two lefts, and then go straight. He'll be fine, he just has to keep track of the twists and turns.

The rain is very loud. It keeps pounding into the dirt and glancing off the leaves and he's really not sure if that's a horse's hooves that he hears, or just...just water.

And it's dark, so dark. The city has street lamps, but this place is overgrown and wild and abandoned and he can't see a thing.

Doesn't matter.

He comes to a junction, decides to go right. Right's a good way to go, isn't it-ow! The hell is this maze grown from, anyway, rusty nails?

He pulls away from the clutching thorns, rubbing at his jabbed elbow, and vows to make more of an effort to stick to the middle.

Where are they…

 **Clip-clop, clip-clop.**

That's definitely a horse. Sounds like it's on the path to his right, if he can just make it over there…

He thinks it might be the Grey Lady; Scarecrow's horse is enormous, and this horse sounds lighter on its feet. Quicker, too. Not that it really helps, but he doesn't think she uses the fear gas that Scarecrow has, and if he has to face one of them alone, he'd rather it be her.

He takes another right and finds himself at a dead end. But he can still hear the horse, on the other side of the leaves. He has to-maybe he can just climb, somehow-

" _ **Three blind mice. Three blind mice…"**_

Dick whirls around. He doesn't think there's anyone here, but...the rain, he can't tell where anything's coming from, and Scarecrow seldom raises his voice, so he _has_ to be nearby. Doesn't he?

" _ **See how they run. See how they run…"**_

Behind him. The voice is behind him.

" _ **They all ran after the farmer's wife…"**_

He steps forward, intending to turn and try to just climb the damn hedge, thorns or no, and.

Can't.

 _Nononononononononononononono_

" _ **Who cut off their tails with a carving knife…"**_

Stuck he's _stuck God no please-_

Wait. Thorns. His cape's caught in the thorns, that's all. He'll just go backwards enough to get some slack and work it free.

" _ **Have you ever seen such a sight in your life…"**_

Come on, come on, let go!

" _ **As three. Blind. Mice."**_

He's just about got it when two weak yellow beams illuminate his hands. He looks up, breath catching.

Scarecrow is crouched on top of the hedge, head tilted to the side like a bird's, the yellow eyes in his mask just reaching Dick.

" _ **I found you!"**_ he says, but makes no move to come down. Dick drops the cape and straightens his shoulders, does his best impression of Batman.

"Give up."

The head tilts to the other side, movement stiff and borderline inhuman- **no**. That's how he gets in your head, he's just a man. He's just a man.

(He has to be.)

" _ **Caught like a little mouse in a trap…"**_

And then he _moves_ , the glint of the scythe Dick's only warning before it swings down. He dives into the mud, hears it cut through his cape, and scrambles to his feet in time for Scarecrow to be on him.

Scarecrow's stronger than he looks, and before Dick can brace himself he's being forced back against the hedge, thorns seeking every out every weak point in his armor.

" _ **Don't be afraid."**_

"I'm not scared of you."

He knees Scarecrow in the stomach and he doubles over, coughing. Dick aims a kick at his collarbone (break it, render him immobile), but the mud is slick. Throws him off balance, just enough to strike Scarecrow's shoulder instead.

Scarecrow ends up on his back. Before Dick can get out of the way, he's flung his arm up and a cloud of gas hits him full in the face.

 _SHIT._

He coughs and sputters and sticks his face up into the rain to try and wash it off. He's dizzy and he can't breathe he can't breathe _he can't breathe-_

 _Gotta stop Scarecrow!_

He rams his hand into the thorns and the pain cuts through the dizziness. Scarecrow, Scarecrow...Scarecrow is gone?

 _DAMN IT!_

He can't have gotten far-there!

"Hey!"

He gives chase. Scarecrow even stands still, for a second or two, before sprinting off into the maze with a maniacal, " _ **Run and run as fast as you can!"**_

He's almost got him. If he can just...a little faster, come on...where did he go?

And. And how did he get here?

 _Right-right-left-no. No, left-right-left-NO. Left-left-left-left-where am I where am I WHERE AM I?_

The hedges loom over him, dark and gnarled. There's no sign of Scarecrow, and the rain has destroyed any footprints Dick might have made running here. Okay. Okay. He's okay. He's just got a little turned around, it happens all the time, that's why it's a _maze_.

A flash of lightning turns the whole place white. And at the other end of the path, he sees Tim.

 _Timmy?_

The first thing he feels, guiltily enough, is relief. Tim's all right, and now he's not alone. The second thing he feels, upon running towards him, is horror. Tim's huddled on the ground, slumped in a hedge with the thorns digging into his cape and skin. He doesn't stir when Dick stumbles to his knees beside him, or when he's tugged free of the thorns.

He's cold. He's so, so cold.

"Tim," Dick breathes, because Bruce and his Thing about names can go hang, Tim is his baby brother and he's hurt a-and- "Timmy, wake up."

Tim's heavy on his lap, arms dangling, and shaking him makes his head loll. Dick glances up and around, but they're still alone.

"C'mon, Tim," he whispers. "Wake up, you gotta wake up."

He jostles him again. There's a. A tearing sound, and Tim's head-

-comes off.

Dick screams and scrambles away, eyes locked on the rolling head

 _Tim Tim TIMMY_

as it bumps gently against the hedge, eyes locked on him.

 _ **SLICE!**_

He rolls aside just as a sword hits the ground where his arm was. The Grey Lady dismounts as he jumps to his feet, heart in his throat, and advances on him.

She did this. She killed Tim. She's not going to walk away, not if it's the last thing he does, not if Bruce hurls him into Arkham and throws away the key.

He leaps at her. She sidesteps him easily and shakes her head at him, slow and disappointed like Alfred does. To Hell with her, _to Hell with her_ , she killed Tim, that psychotic-

The ground heaves under his feet and he stumbles, struggling to keep his balance. The Grey Lady lunges at him and he hops back, the tip of her blade missing his chest by centimeters, and trips over Tim's...over Tim.

His back squashes into the mud and he scrambles to get his legs and hands under himself. _Then_ there's searing agony in his left shoulder, underscored by the ripping of flesh and muscle.

 _Hurtshurtshurtsithurtsgetitout-!_

 _Breathe, Dick._

 _GET UP._

He palms a shuriken in his right hand and forces himself to go still, trying to make his shoulder relax. Tense muscles are painful muscles. The Grey Lady tilts her head, considering, and oh-so-slowly draws her sword back out. Warmth blooms and streams down his arm.

He throws the shuriken. His aim is off and instead of her face (Bruce's rules can jump in the river) he hits her arm, but it's enough to force her back.

A long, eerie whistle comes from somewhere in the maze. Before Dick can get to his feet, the Grey Lady is gone, the horse's hoofbeats quickly melting into the rain.

He rips off a strip of his cape to bind his shoulder and forces himself up. He wants to carry Tim with him, but he's not sure he can even pick him up. So it's with a heavy heart that he staggers after the Lady. She's not getting away with this, not even it it kills him.

The gravel path stretches out before him, endless and white. His shoulder burns and his hair's sticking to his face and neck and _there's no sign of them where are they-?_

He rounds the corner and stops dead at a **noise**. It's a wet, stringy sound, and he can't place it.

 _Mind your surroundings._

A flash of lightning turns everything white-except for the dark shape huddled in an alcove carved into the hedge a few feet away.

 _Gotcha._

He moves closer. The wet sound speeds up and there's a...a gulp. What _is_ that?

Another flash illuminates Jason. Dick breathes a sigh of relief before crouching down next to him.

"Jay?" he whispers. Jason doesn't react. He's the cause of the noise, but he's also turned away from Dick. "What're you doin'?"

 **Schlmunch, schlumunch, schlumunch.**

"Jason?"

He reaches over to tug on Jason's shoulder. The younger boy doesn't want to move and Dick finally grabs him around the ribs and drags him out of the alcove.

Jason's forearm is between his teeth. The flesh is ragged and Dick sees bone he sees fucking **bone and nononononononononono-**

" _ **There you are!"**_

 **Schlumunch, schlmunch, schlmunch.**

 _Nonononononononono Jay please what are you doing I'm sorry I'M SORRY-_

" _ **Aren't you going to run?"**_

He's pulled away and upwards, Scarecrow's bony hands locked tight on his shoulder, clawlike fingers digging into the stab.

" _ **I've never seen such a sight in my life…"**_

 **Schlmunch, schlmunch, schlmunch.**

" _ **As three."**_

He squirms. Fingers dig deeper into the stab and he thinks they reach bone.

" _ **Blind."**_

 _Please…_

" _ **Mice."**_

* * *

*Bruce's narration boxes in Haunted Knight only say that 'two children wandered in, the police searched and searched, when they found them, it was too late...the children were…' but he also says that the place should have been burned to the ground. I'm mostly sure there was no cannibalism involved, but fuck it. There is now.


	24. See How They Run, Pt 2

AN: Recommended listening: Tommee Profitt's 'Desolation'.

* * *

Jason thinks that Dick thinks he doesn't know about what happened in the maze. And y'know what, if that helps him sleep at night, fine. Jason can be nice like that sometimes.

Now, when it happened, he'd been...it's not like he didn't care, but it was like any other kind of tragedy the papers blared out. Awful, yeah, but no reason to get all broken up about it. People die horribly all the time. One'a his neighbors-when Momma was still alive-she spilled oil on herself, and she tripped. Bit of her dress went into the fire, and she.

She went up. Ran out into the hallway screamin' and leapt over the third-story stair railing. Somebody finally put her out, but between the fall and the burns, she wasn't...she wasn't all right, not really. Took three days for her to stop screamin', though.

Yeah. People die. Sometimes it's ugly.

(Momma had…)

But these freaks on horseback, they're not killing people by accident. They're doin' it for fun, is Jason's opinion. That church, last week, the one Bruce had stumbled into...he didn't tell them much, and the papers had been awful quiet, but he'd overheard Bruce and Selina, late at night. It'd been awful.*

So they have to take them down. Which is why they're in the maze even though Bruce said no. Bruce is all the way across town, by the time he gets here, they'll be gone and more people will be dead.

(Or worse.)

Jason's first idea is to climb the hedge and look for Scarecrow's glowing horse. And he tries it, only for the thorns to jab clean through his gloves and dig into his palms. Geeze, what are these things?

Doesn't matter. Dick went that way, Tim went that way, so he'll go this way and try not to get lost. Though, really, if he gets lost, he's climbing the damn hedges, thorns or not.

He's not scared. But...maybe it...would've been better to stick together. Y'know. For safety. Not that it matters now.

 _Where are you?_

He can't hear anything but the rain pounding into the mud and his boots squelching in said mud. It's sticky, clingy, and it's dumb, but he wonders if it's...alive. Somehow.

Somewhere ahead of him, there's a horse's snort. He grins, just for a second, and makes more of a conscious effort to move quietly, and to keep to the middle of the path. Why give 'em an opportunity to attack from the sides?

 _See, Bruce, I'm not_ _reckless_ _._

There's no more noise and Jason stills, trying to see through the rain. Did he imagine the horse? He didn't think…

 _Shhh…_

What was that?

He twists around. There's nothing behind him, but...but he doesn't remember, exactly, which path he took to get here.

It doesn't matter, he figures. He'll be fine.

When nothing happens, he keeps going, half-wishing he'd stuck with one of the others. But only half. They gotta catch these lunatics, and the fastest way to do that is to split up.

A flash of lightning stops him in his tracks; up ahead, no more than ten feet away, is a horse and rider. And they're facing him.

It's not Scarecrow, it's the other one. And he can handle her, now that he knows what to expect.

"You may as well just give up," he calls over the rain. The horse's ears move but the rider does not. She just stares at him-

-and then charges him.

It's only thanks to several near-accidents in the city streets that he gets out of the way in time, and even then it's only just. He rolls back to his feet as the Grey Lady turns her horse back around, but she doesn't charge him again. Just looks.

"You missed."

" _ **But I didn't."**_

WHAT-

 _HISSSS!_

Jason hits the ground, pulling his cape over his mouth and nose. His eyes still sting, but last time the effects started immediately and this time he's not seeing things. Well, apart from Scarecrow's yellow eyes and shiny scythe and giant, glowing horse.

Horse?

It's stupid, and everyone he knows will be mad about it later, but he jumps up and forward, arms flung wide, and the horse rears back.

" _ **You little brat-!"**_

He can't handle them both. He runs for it, sprinting past Scarecrow and taking a hard turn left-right-does-it-matter, deeper into the maze. Distance, he needs distance, or maybe to get around behind them, if he can just get them on the ground…

He can't see very well, and he _knows_ it's just the rain, but everything's blurry and he can't...s'that a bush, or a person?

" _ **Come out, come out, wherever you are!"**_

 _Not on your life, freak._

He stumbles to a halt at a crossroads, knowing he should make a decision but not knowing where they _are_ and-

" _Jayyyysoooon!"_

Mama?

No, he reminds himself, Mama's dead. He was there, he saw it happen. His mind's playing tricks, that's all. Now. Left or right?

" _Jayjay, where are you?"_

Sometimes...not a lot, but sometimes...sometimes people wake up. After. An' she didn't but maybe he was wrong-

He wasn't wrong. He knows he wasn't wrong. Mama is dead and he misses her but that's not gonna make her come back.

But he goes left, because it sounded...it sounded like her voice came from the left, a-and maybe she's not here but still tryin' ta help him or somethin'.

(It's a nice lie to cling to, isn't it?)

" _Jay? Baby?"_

From somewhere behind him comes the sound of heavy horse's hooves splattering through the mud and he takes a sudden right, wedges himself into a half-overgrown alcove and holds his breath. The hoofbeats stop not five feet away and rain or no rain, he can hear the animal breathing, deep and even. He thinks it's Scarecrow, but he doesn't want to poke his head out and see. When whoever it is moves on, he'll look, see what he can do.

Two agonizing minutes later, there's the gentle clinking of the reins and a snort as the horse is turned around, followed by a swift _clip-clip_ as it's urged into a trot. Jason peeks-

-but there's no horse. He can hear it, in the dark, but he can't see it. It was...he'd heard it, he knows he did…

" _Jason Peter, when I call you, you answer me!"_

Frail arms wrap around him and he jumps, pulls free, and turns around.

"...Mama?" He can just make her out, but. But that's _Mama_ , alive and as whole as she ever was a-and- "Mama!"

Some nagging little voice is saying to be careful. He ignores it in favor of springing into her arms like he hadn't gotten the chance to do long before she...she...went away? She went away. She was sick, and she went away. That's right.

" _Hey-hey, be gentle with me."_ She hugs him back, weak and trembling, and one of her thin hands buries itself in his hair. " _Look at you, all grown up!"_

"I've got…" He guesses 'brothers' is the best word, even if it feels weird to announce that to his mother. "When you left, I…"

She pulls back and he's confused, because didn't she miss him, too? But she's just reaching up to cup his face, fingertips brushing the edges of the mask.

" _Look at you…"_

Why's she so cold? It's cold outside, yeah, but...but she always used to be so warm.

"I thought you weren't comin' back."

He can't see her face, not really, but he knows she's giving him that soft smile she always used to, when she was really hurting and he'd tell her stories.

" _Let's go home, Jason."_

Home? They don't...their old flat's not...she wouldn't know, a-and besides, he's...Bruce wouldn't throw her out, would he? His house'd fit half their old neighborhood, easy.

Mama's hand drops and grabs his wrist like he's three again, but she's squeezing way too tight. He tries to pull away and she squeezes harder, brittle nails digging in through his sleeves and through his skin.

"You're hurting me-"

And then she shoves him into the hedge, thorns lashing out and holding him tight.

" _It's time to go, Jason."_

"Mama-"

She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him back until the thorns are nipping at his face.

" _You were supposed to die, not me,"_ she hisses, eyes shining in the darkness like a cat's. " _This is all your fault!"_

"I didn't mean to get sick-"

" _An eye for an eye, a life for a life."_

"Mama, please-"

Lightning flashes and Mama **grows** , gains a good foot and a bit, and the thumb brushing his throat turns sharper.

Scarecrow chuckles and grasps Jason's hair, pulls his head back.

" _ **I found you!"**_

*Incident detailed in 'Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned'.


End file.
